MY  POOR  REUTIONS 

MAARTEN  MAARTENS 


MY    POOR    RELATIONS 


BY   MAARTEN    MAARTENS. 


Each,  l2fflo,  doth,  tilt,  $1.50. 


DOROTHEA. 
A  Story  of  the  Pure  in  Heart. 

GOD'S     FOOL. 

Twtt/th  Printing. 
"  The  story  is  wonderfully  brilliant.  .  .  .  The  Interest 
never  lags;  the  style  is  realistic  and  intense  ;  and  there  is 
a  constantly  underlying  current  of  subtile  humor.  ...  It 
is,  in  short,  a  hook  which  no  student  of  modern  literature 
should  fail  to  read." — Boston    Times. 

JOOST    AVELINGH. 

Twelfth  Printing. 

"We  are  given  a  glimpse  of  Dutch  politics,  and  more 
than  a  glimpse — a  charming,  all-round  view  of  Dutch 
people  at  home." — New  York    Times. 

THE    GREATER    GLORY. 

Sixth  Printing. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  in  'The  Greater  Glory'  has  even 
eclipsed  his  fine  performance  in  the  writing  of  'God's 
Fool.'  This  new  work  deals  with  high  life  in  Holland, 
and  the  Dutch  master  has  portrayed  it  with  the  touch  of 
true  genius.  The  storj'  is  full  of  color  and  of  dramatic 
situations  delicately  wrought  oni." -I'kilatiel/ihia  Press. 

HER    MEMORY. 

With  Photogravure   Portrait.      Third  Printing. 

"Maarten  .Maartens  took  us  all  by  storm  some  time 
ago  with  his  fine  story  christened  'God's  Fool.'  He  estab- 
lished himself  at  once  in  our  affections  as  a  unique  crea- 
ture who  had  something  to  say  and  knew  how  to  say  it  in 
the  most  fascin.itin;;   way."— .Vz-w   York  Ileralii. 

SOME  VOMEN  I  HAVE  KNOWN. 

With  Frontispiece.  Third  Printing. 
Maarten  Maartens  is  recognized  by  all  readers  of 
fiction  as  one  of  the  most  artistic  and  finished  novel- 
ists of  the  day,  and  he  has  done  nothing  that  shows 
certain  fine  characteristics  of  his  work  better  than 
this  gallery  of  charmingly  executed  miniatures. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


POOR    RELATIONS 


STORIES    OF   DUTCH 
PEASANT    LIFE 


"^^      MAARTEN    MAARTENS 

AUTHOR    OF 
"DOROTHEA,"    "  GOD'S    FOOL,"    "  JOOST   AV^LINGH,"    ETC. 


NEW    YORK 

D.  APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 

1905 


Publithed  March,  1905 


CONTENTS 


Jan  Hunkum's  Money 
The  Fair-Lovbr 
The  Mother 
The  Summer  Christmas 
The  Notary's  Love  Story 
The  Banquet 
"  Silly  "       .        . 
The  Minister's  Dog   . 
Tom  Potter's  Pilgrimage 
'  The  Trick  "      . 
Why  He  Loved  Her 
In  Extremis        .         * 
A  Bit  of  To -Day 

A   COMEDV    UF   CrIMB    . 


page 
7 

99 
126 
180 
204 
227 
246 
262 
2S2 
296 
314 
327 
336 
357 


Jan  Hunkum's  Money 
I 

THE  whole  hamlet  effervesced  with  delicious  per- 
turbation.    Every  one  was  telling  every  one  else 
that  Jan  Hunkum  lay  murdered  in  his  bed. 

The  Hemel  is  one  of  the  dirtiest  spots  in  a  country 
where  no  spot  is  very  dirty.  The  appearance  of  the 
place  is  against  it :  some  few  dozen  disorderly  hovels  lie 
pitched  across  a  field,  their  builders  having  allowed 
them  to  fall  as  they  chose.  Some,  abusing  this  permis- 
sion, lurch  heavily,  looking  as  if,  like  many  of  the 
people  inside  them,  they  had  frequently  taken  a  drop 
too  much.  Others  bend  backwards,  propped  up  with 
the  pride  that  cometh  before  a  fall,  and  the  general 
crookedness,  and  the  old  age  that  accentuates  it,  give 
the  tumble-down  dwellings  a  disreputable  leer  such  as 
many  of  the  indwellers  have  developed  for  themselves. 
Our  conceptions  of  heaven — wLich  is  "  De  Hemel " — 
must  inevitably  remain  inadequate  at  the  best :  perhaps 
the  angels  up  yonder,  in  clouland,  cannot  properly 
distinguish  the  gulf  which,  in  our  ap^.reciation,  sinks  a 
pool  of  poverty  and  wickedness  like  this  httle  Dutch 
hamlet  beneath  a  favoured  nook  of  our  deteriorated 
Paradise  such  as,  say,  Monte  Carlo.  Still,  the  name  is 
undoubtedly  euphemistic  :  and  yet,  again,  how  easily 

7 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

the  place  might  have  been,  or  grown,  worse  !  True,  its 
houses,  and  heads,  are  untidily  thatched  :  the  nakedness 
of  the  land  is  as  patent  as  that  of  many  a  yokel  pretending 
to  till  it :  never  has  anything  connected  with  the  village 
been  properly  drained  or  trained  :  never  has  anything 
been  quite  sufficiently  scrubbed,  excepting  the  newest 
born  baby — yet,  as  a  rule,  the  community  washes  itself 
grey,  and  in  all  its  rag-and-bone  debasement  it  tries  to 
draw  the  hne  at  vermin.      Dutch  squalor  does. 

In  Jan  Hunkum's  day  the  old  man's  cottage  was  the 
only  hale  and  hearty  building  of  the  lot.  Forty  years  of 
his  stupid  hfe  Jan  Hunkum  spent  in  it — more  than  half 
the  whole — and  during  that  long  period  of  possession, 
for  he  owned  it,  he  had  it  once  repainted  and  twice 
repaired.  Therefore  it  stood,  distinctly  noticeable, 
amongst  the  straggUng  paths  and  rough  potato-plots, 
with  a  yellow  zone  of  weeded  gravel  round  it,  a  sort  of 
self-important  centre  towards  which  its  ramshackle  sur- 
rounders  seemed  to  have  been  huddling  before  they  came 
to  pieces  on  the  moor. 

Across  the  open  space  in  front  of  this  central  cottage 
a  rabble  of  excited  men,  women,  and  children  now 
swarmed,  eagerly  expectant  of  horrors  to  come.  It  was 
early  morning,  misty  and  chilly,  a  raw  November  day- 
break. The  damp  little  dwelUng  stared  back  at  the 
whispering  groups,  its  two  windows  tightly  shuttered, 
the  door  in  the  middle  ostentatiously  opaque. 

Somebody — no  one  knew  who — running  past  some- 
body else,  had  cried  out  that  Jan  Hunkum  lay  murdered. 
Somebody — opinion  here  varied — had  raced  off  to 
Horstwyk,  the  village,  for  its  single  policeman.  Sud- 
denly every  one  was  full  of  the  news.  No  two  stoiies 
coincided  as  to  persons  or  particulars.     Nobody  really 

8 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

knew  anything.  That,  too,  was  dehghtful.  For  neces- 
sity became  the  swift  mother  of  invention. 

But  all  were  fully  agreed  that  it  served  Jan  Hunkum 
right.  Not  because  he  was  a  bad  man — few  of  them 
cared  to  discriminate  badness — but  because  he  was  rich 
and  a  miser,  and  they,  the  whole  tribe  of  them,  were  his 
putative  heirs.  'Tis  ill  waiting  for  the  death  of  a  cousin 
close  on  eighty,  when  that  cousin  daily  duns  you  for 
exorbitant  rent. 

Jan  Hunkum  had  long  been  known  as  the  oldest 
inhabitant.  There  might  easily  have  been  many  far 
older — for  the  human  plant,  as  all  men  can  see,  excepting 
sanitarians  and  scientists,  grows  toughest  on  a  dunghill 
— but  the  population  tired  of  its  grandparents  as  soon 
as  the  old  people  got  "  it "  on  the  chest,  and  would 
bundle  them  off  to  the  Horstwyk  poorhouse  with  a 
shamelessness  which  disgusted  the  very  beggars  of  the 
more  respectable  place.  In  defence  of  the  Hemelers  it 
must  be  stated  that  admission  into  the  poorhouse  was 
considered  a  safeguard  against  death,  on  the  principle 
that  it  takes  two  killings  to  kill  a  pauper,  just  as  a  charity 
child  is  known  to  have  nine  lives.  "  And  what's  more," 
said  Joop  Sloop,  the  Hemelers'  self-appointed  wiseacre, 
"  there  never  yet  was  anybody  born  so  fond  of  his 
relatives,  that  he  could  'a  stood  them  coughing  all  night 
unless  he'd  had  a  cough  of  his  own  !  "  After  seventy  all 
died  of  "  it  "  on  the  chest.  Nobody  had  ever  been  mur- 
dered.    That  was  distinctly  original. 

It  was  just  like  Jan  Hunkum,  who  had  always  been 
unique.  Who  but  he  had  ever  kept  money  in  his  purse 
or  kept  a  purse  to  keep  the  money  in  ?  Jan  Hunkum 
had  strong  boxes,  iron  safes,  coffers  full  of  gold.  Nobody 
had  ever  beheld  them  :  everybody  knew  they  were  there. 

9 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Nobody  minded  their  existence — have  there  not  always 
been  rich  folk  and  poor  folk  ? — but  everybody  abused 
him  for  the  cruel  old  miser  he  certainly  was,  these 
improvident  rapscallions  all  around  him  being  far  too 
necessitous  to  understand  the  madness  of  money 
unspent. 

And  yet  he  was  one  of  themselves,  cousin,  variously 
removed,  to  the  whole  lazy  crew  of  them.  Herein  also 
his  case  was  peculiar.  For  while  many  of  them  were 
affiliated,  and  many  at  feud,  he  was  everybody's  relation 
and  detested  by  all. 

A  voice  rose  above  the  loud  murmurs  by  the  cottage. 
"  I  won't  go  for  to  say  it  serves  him  right !  "  said  the 
voice.  "  Seeing  as  'tis  Goramighty  gives  us  all  our  dues. 
But  I  will  say  as  'twas  bound  to  happen.  Lor,  it'll 
happen  again  !  " 

This  statement  was  received  in  silence. 

"  With  an  old  man  living  by  himself,"  continued  the 
voice,  "  in  a  house  that's  packed  with  gold  from  floor  to 
ceihng  !  " 

Though  all  recognized  this  well-known  fact,  yet  a 
thrill  ran  through  the  assembly  to  see  it  thus  nakedly 
exposed. 

"  And  tramps  going  by  all  day,"  said  another  voice. 
This  suggestion  received  general  approval.  Everybody 
eagerly  said — "  Tramps." 

"  Is  the  gold  there  ?  "  queried  a  small  boy  with  a 
wizened  face.     He  pointed  to  the  cottage. 

A  murmur  arose  like  the  swift  soughing  of  the  wind. 
Momentous  question  !  Was  the  gold  still  there  ?  Each 
hungry  creature  gazed  into  his  neighbour's  apprehensive 
eyes.  Supposing  that,  in  the  very  moment  of  righteous 
acquisition,  the  trecisure  of  the  Hemel  had  melted  away 

10 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

from  the  extended  claw  !    A  groan  broke  loose  :   then, 
of  a  sudden,  all  were  talking  together,  out  loud. 

They  must  get  into  the  silent  house  to  make  sure  ! 
They  could  go  round  by  the  back — no,  that  would  be 
impossible ! — they  must  all  break  open  the  door. 
Somebody — no,  all  together — by  the  httle  scullery  win- 
dow ! — why  together  ? — for  a  moment,  in  the  fierce  flare 
of  universally  disclaimed  distrust,  there  arose  a  menace 
of  battle — all  together,  mind  !  Share  and  share  ahke — 
who  says  the  poUce  must  enter  first  ?  Oh,  only  that 
fool,  Jaap  Avis  ! 

"  'Tis  the  law,"  said  Jaap  Avis  quietly,  audible  amid 
the  noise. 

"  The  law  ?  And  a  man's  relations  ?  Shall  a  dead 
corpse  he  weltering  in  gore  and  its  own  relations  not  try 
to  restore  it  ?  " 

A  woman's  screech  had  soared  above  the  Babel  with 
"  own  relations  !  "  Immediately  there  followed  a  lull. 
A  gaunt  creature  with  violent  eyes  had  pushed  herself 
to  the  front.  "  Yes,  own  relations,"  she  repeated 
fiercely.  "  'Tis  a  dead  man's  nearest  relations  must  look 
after  things.  That's  the  law  !  And  I'm  sure,  if  my 
Uncle  Hunkum " 

Fierce  as  she  was,  she  shrank  back  before  their  out- 
burst of  abuse.  "  Uncle,  indeed  !  Her  uncle  !  The 
impudence !  Her  daughter's  uncle,  perhaps  ?  Ha ! 
Ha  !  He  was  every  one's  uncle  and  nobody's  uncle ! 
They  were  all  his  equal  relations,  his  cousins,  his  heirs  !  " 

"  No  !  "  cried  Joop  Sloop,  the  publican  and  barber. 
There  was  conscious  authority  in  his  accents.  "  Shares'll 
depend  on  degrees  of  relationship.  Of  cousinship,"  he 
added,  with  a  scornful  glance  at  the  silently  defiant 
"  niece." 

II 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

For  a  moment  again  they  stood  hushed,  all  grown 
suddenly  genealogical.  And  amidst  the  knitted  brows 
and  dumbly  computing  lips  a  meek  little  voice  piped 
forth— 

"  But  supposing  he's  left  a  Scripture,  Joop  ?  " 

"  A  testament,  you  mean,  Jaap  Avis.  How  ignorant 
you  people  are  !  He  hasn't  left,  as  I  happen  to  be  aware, 
any  sort  of  last  will  or  testament." 

"  How  aware  ?  "  cried  a  dozen  voices.  "  What's  a 
last  will  or  testament,  Joop  ?  " 

The  barber  rubbed  his  unshaven  cheek. 

"  Never  you  mind  how  I  know  what  I  know,"  he  said. 

"  I  don't  care,"  persisted  Jaap  Avis,  the  shoemaker, 
sullenly.  "  When  a  man  makes  a  writing  at  a  notary's, 
his  relatives  don't  get  a  cent.  I  know  they  don't.  For 
why  ?     I  had  a  plaguy  sister  did  it." 

They  all  jeered  at  this  boast.  "  A  sister  as  was  a  lady, 
I  suppose  ?  "  said  one. 

"  No  a  lady's  maid,"  retorted  the  little  man,  too  weak 
to  swear  at  any  but  the  absent  or  the  dead.  He  turned 
on  his  heel. 

"  And  what's  more,"  continued  Joop  Sloop,  with 
unction,  "  I  advise  you  all  to  wait  very  patiently  till 
Government  pays  each  man  his  share.  Government's 
never  in  a  hurry.  'Cause  why  ?  'Cause  Government 
never  dies.  And  now  go  home,  you  people,  and  don't 
anybody  talk  of  breaking  in  doors." 

"  But  the  money  !  "  clamoured  half  a  dozen  voices. 
"  The  money  !     Is  it  there  ?     Is  it  gone  ?  " 

"  He's  there,  at  any  rate,"  said  a  young  girl,  who,  till 
then,  had  stood  silent  beside  the  "  niece."  All  stared  at 
her.     A  new  idea  again. 

"  Hes  there,"  the  girl  repeated  hurriedly.     "  One'd 

12 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

think  his  ghost  was  peering  at  us  through  that  hole  in  the 
left-hand  shutter.  I've  seen  his  eye  a-twinkling  there 
a  hundred  times  when  I  came  to  bring  the  bread.  That's 
his  bedroom." 

A  couple  of  women  shrieked.  The  girl  stepped  for- 
ward to  the  barred  and  watchful  house.  "  La,  I  saw 
something  shine  !  "  she  cried,  and  leaped  away. 

But,  if  this  was  a  ruse  to  protect  the  cottage,  it  failed. 
Protestant  Dutchmen  are  the  least  superstitious  of 
mankind.  With  a  general  outcry,  "  The  thief !  The 
thief !  "  the  whole  band,  intent  upon  saving  "  their  " 
property,  rushed  madly  at  the  door. 

Before  any  one  could  reach  it,  they  saw  it  fall  open. 
The  murdered  man  stood  on  the  threshold.  Screaming 
now,  in  good  earnest,  the  whole  dingy  flight  fluttered 
back. 

He  was  wrapped  in  a  faded  dressing-gown.  His  livid 
face,  with  the  bushy  eyebrows  and  immense  protruding 
underlip,  was  swathed  in  linen  bandages.  There  were 
horrid  stains  upon  the  bandages.  His  wicked  eyes  shot 
fire. 

"  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  he  said  :  there  was  no  laugh  in  the 
sound.  "  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  For  a 
moment  he  seemed  incapable  of  any  other  utterance. 
"  My  poor  relations !  "  he  said  at  length.  "  My  poor,  poor 
— relations  !  Are  you  all  there,  my  relations  ?  Has 
nobody  forgotten  to  come  ?  " 

They  stood  in  a  furious  half-circle.  But  nobody 
minded  his  sarcasm,  except  the  girl,  who  shrank  behind 
her  mother. 

"  Walk  in,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  continued  Jan, 
standing  aside  with  a  swift  profusion  of  bows.  The  ends 
of  linen  on  his  bald  head  went  bobbing  to  and  fro. 

13 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Walk  in,  pray,  and  inspect  the  property  !  A  very 
desirable  property ! "  Then,  as  nobody  moved,  he 
burst  out — 

"  Come  here — do  you  mind  me  ? — you  white-Uvered 
cowards  !  What  are  you  afraid  of,  you  skulking  thieves  ? 
Is  it  a  dead  man  you  fear,  you  robbers  ?  Afraid  he's  not 
dead  enough — ha  !  "  And  now  he  really  laughed — a 
discordant  twang.  "  Come  in  and  see  what  there's  left 
of  Jan  Hunkum's  money  !  Each  of  you  may  keep  what 
he  finds  and  be  welcome  to  waste  it ! — ha  !  "  By  sheer 
force  of  passion  he  dragged  them  towards  him  :  slowly 
the  whole  troop  crept  forward  into  the  narrow  passage 
and,  pushed  from  behind,  all  over  the  two  little 
rooms. 

The  cottage  presented  a  scene  of  the  wildest  disorder. 
Everything  bore  evidence,  in  the  bedroom,  of  a  struggle, 
in  the  parlour,  of  a  search.  The  scant  furniture  had  been 
upset  and  flung  asunder  and  scattered  across  the  floor. 
Nothing  seemed  seriously  damaged  or  broken,  but  the 
cupboard  doors  swung  everywhere  unlocked,  the  drawers, 
with  their  meagre  contents,  lay  yawning  right  and  left. 
The  clumsy  visitors  hung  open-mouthed.  Not  one  of 
them  had  ever  been,  as  yet,  inside  Jan  Hunkum's 
jealously  bolted  door. 

"  Now  search  while  you  can !  "  cried  the  miser, 
rubbing  his  discoloured  hands.  "  If  there's  a  penny  left, 
find  it,  keep  it,  and  spend  it !  But  only  for  money, 
mind !  Is  there  any  money  left,  you  murderers  ? 
Which  of  you  has  got  it,  you  cut-throats  ?  Or  have 
you  already  divided  it  between  you — share  and  share 
ahke  ! — and  nobody  blabs  ?  " 

The  gaunt  woman  turned  indignantly.  "  Now  the 
Lord  Almighty  is  witness,  Jan  Hunkum,"  she  said,  "  that 

14 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

none  of  us  has  ever  seen  a  penny  of  yours.  /  haven't. 
And  well  I  might." 

"  Is  that  you  ?  "  replied  the  old  man  coolly.  "  Trust 
you  to  talk  loudest,  Mary  Brock.  And  why,  pray,  should 
/  pay,  more  than  others,  for  Mary's  daily  gin  ?  " 

"  'Cause  she's  your  niece,  don't  you  know — cousin  !  " 
broke  in  a  lean  woman  with  a  hump. 

"  My  niece  ?  That's  a  lie,  and  she  knows  it.  Her 
grandfather  was  brother  to  my  mother.  Oh,  I  know 
about  your  precious  relationships — none  better — as 
some  day  you'll  all  find  out !  " 

At  this  moment  Jaap  Avis,  whose  mild  eyes  had  been 
ceaselessly  travelling  round  the  apartment,  darted  for- 
ward and  picked  something  up.  "  One  florin  for  me," 
he  said  gently.     "  You  said  we  might  keep  all  we  found." 

"  What !  "  shrieked  the  old  man.     "  Have  they  left 

me  a  florin  ?    G ,  let  me  look  at  it,  Jaap  Avis  !     A 

florin  !  A  whole  silver  florin  !  Well,  an  honest  man's 
word  is  as  good  as  an  oath,  they  say  " — his  voice  died  to 
a  moan — "  you  must  keep  it."  He  sank  into  an  old 
wicker  armchair  and  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 

The  search  now  began  in  earnest ;  the  whole  rabble 
turned  and  twisted  in  the  narrow  space,  bumping  one 
against  the  other  as  they  painfully  bent,  while  the 
children  gleefully  scrambled  in  and  out,  or  rubbed  their 
grumbling  elders'  unaccustomed  backs.  The  owner  of 
the  cottage  had  adjusted  his  bandage  and  sat  watching, 
with  folded  arms,  no  expression  on  his  wicked  old  face. 

"  That's  right !  "  he  said.  "  Mind  you  look  every- 
where !  Think  of  Jaap  Avis'  florin  !  Only  yesterday, 
as  all  of  you  know,  my  house  was  heaped  full  of  gold 
and  silver.  And  now  there's  nothing  left  but  one  beg- 
garly florin,  and  Jaap  Avis  has  gotten  that.    Oh  Law  !  " 

15 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

He  began  to  moan  and  beat  his  breast.  "  Jaap  Avis  !  " 
he  cried  with  sudden  fury,  "  Jaap  Avis  has  gotten 
that !  " 

Evidently,  no  such  luck  was  in  store  for  the  others. 
One  by  one,  the  searchers  slackened ;  the  children  had 
long  ago  desisted  :  suddenly  all  stopped,  dead  beat. 
The  oldest  and  weariest,  hngering  last,  sank  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor.  None  of  the  Hemelers  was  accustomed  to 
labour  in  any  form. 

"  Not  a  penny  left,"  said  the  old  man  slowly,  and 
stared  at  the  knocked-up  do-nothings  in  front  of  him. 
"  Robbed  of  everything  in  a  single  night.  Are  you  sure 
that  you've  looked  everywhere  ?  Jaap  Avis  found  a 
florin.  My  last  florin.  Look  again.  Look  everywhere. 
Look  again." 

Some  of  them  turned  despairing  eyes  to  various  cor- 
ners, but  the  heart  had  gone  out  of  the  Hemelers.  Jan 
Hunkum's  glance  fell  upon  the  girl,  as  she  lolled,  indif- 
ferent, against  the  outer  door.  "  Go  home,  Liza  Brock," 
he  said  almost  gently  for  him.  And  she  obeyed  him, 
slinking  away. 

"  And  now,  hear  me,  you  all !  "  he  began.  "  You  see 
that  I've  been  robbed  of  every  penny.  Go  and  find  the 
man  that  did  it :  go  and  bring  my  money  back.  It's  in 
a  brown  leather  chest — no  very  big  chest — a  brown 
leather  chest  with  bright  brass  fittings.  All  my  money's 
in  that  chest.  The  man  that  brings  my  money  back — 
hearken  to  me  :  I  swear  it  by  the  Heaven  that  made  us 
— made  me,  at  any  rate,  you  brutes — the  man  that  brings 
me  my  money  back  shall  have  every  penny  of  it,  legally, 
lawfully,  by  will  and  testament,  if  ever  I  come  to  die. 
But  first  he  must  kill  the  man  that  took  it.  And  hearken 
again,  you  brutes" — he  spoke  very  carefully,  without 

i6 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

any  excuse  for  the  violence  of  his  language — "  you've 
seen  the  whole  place  now,  as  you've  thirsted  to  do  for 
years  and  years — oh,  I  know  you  ! — you've  seen  the 
coffers  and  cupboards,  and  the  diamonds  all  piled  to  the 
ceiling  " — he  cast  a  swift  leer  round  the  bare  but  clean 
little  bedroom — "  and  now  if  one  of  you  ever  darkens 
my  threshold  again  on  any  pretence — mind  you,  on  any 
pretence — I  swear  it :  he  shall  never — no,  not  if  he  did 
it  to  save  my  life — he  shall  never  inherit  a  penny  of 
mine.  I  shall  write  that  down  in  a  will  to-night,  lest 
I  die  ere  I've  done  it.  Get  out !  "  He  pointed  to  the 
door  and  continued  silently  pointing  till  the  last  ragged 
figure  had  slouched  away  into  the  bluish  autumn  mist. 

Then  he  slowly  raised  himself  and  began  to  unwind 
the  blood-stained  bandages.  His  bald  head  with  its 
fluffy  fringe,  his  skinny  neck  and  sharp  cheek-bones  and 
chin,  the  whole  cunning,  covetous  countenance  gradually 
stood  out  clear  against  the  whitewashed  wall.  He  drew 
forward  to  the  little  tenpenny  shaving-glass  that  hung 
in  the  window.  There  was  no  sign  of  a  wound  anywhere. 
He  chuckled  softly.  "  I  should  like  to  hear  Jaap  Avis," 
he  muttered  aloud,  "  when  he  finds  that  his  florin's  a 
bad  one.  I've  had  it  about  me  more  than  twenty  years  : 
never  did  I  think  to  get  so  advantageously  rid  of  it. 
The  more  fool  I  to  take  counterfeit  coin !  " 


II 

That  evening  the  customary  Saturday  conversazione 
at  Joop  Sloop's  was  quite  unprecedentedly  animated. 
Clouds  of  surmise  and  suggestion  ascended  over  the  pipes 
and  "  Hollands."  There  was  much  discussion,  but  little 
argument. 

2  17 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Immemorial  tradition  decrees  that  the  least  indolent 
of  the  Hemelers  shall  shave  all  the  others  on  Saturday 
nights  at  a  farthing  per  chin.  Also  that  he  shall  be 
permitted  to  eke  out  his  Uttle  profits  by  keeping  them 
waiting  as  long  as  he  likes  (they're  not  in  a  hurry)  whilst 
purveying,  for  their  delectation,  the  smallest  of  gossip 
and  the  filthiest  of  unlicensed  spirits.  Joop  Sloop  had 
now  been  a  barber  for  a  quarter  of  a  century,  by  right  of 
his  possessing  the  biggest  front  room.  Also  he  possessed 
a  strapping  red  and  black  daughter,  Juha,  who  could 
take  the  gin-money,  and  a  coarse  jest,  with  a  laugh,  and 
could  parry  the  jest.  He  was  absent  to-night.  Mean- 
while Juha  was  doing  the  honours. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Jaap  Avis  with  measured  exultation. 
"  Now  whom  do  you  believe,  pray,  neighbours,  Joop 
Sloop  or  me  ?  Can  a  man  leave  his  money  where  he  likes 
or  can't  he  ?  "  Jaap  Avis  felt  that  sometimes  'tis 
pleasanter  to  be  proved  mistaken,  "Jan  Hunkum 
makes  his  testament  and  none  of  us  gets  our  own. 
Now  that  he's  lost  his  money,  the  old  rogue  gives  it 
away." 

"  You  needn't  complain,  Jaap  Avis,"  replied  one  of 
the  men  with  a  grunt.  "  You've  got  your  florin,  you 
have.  None  of  us  can  say  as  much."  The  others  looked 
stolid  approval :  very  rarely  does  the  real  peasant  com- 
mit himself   to  the  proverbial  "  nod  "  of  assent. 

Jaap  Avis  smiled.  "  Yes,  I've  got  my  florin,"  he 
said.  But  then  his  complacent  cheeks  sank  in.  "  And 
what's  a  beggarly  florin  ?  "  he  said. 

"  'Tis  twenty  stivers,  a  hundred  cents.  Two  whole 
years'  shaving,"  came  the  quick  reply.  "  'Tis  a  bird  in 
the  hand,  and  is  a  bit  of  good  luck,  'tis  a — shame  ! 
You'll  have  to  stand  treat,  Jaap  Avis." 

l8 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

The  speaker,  a  blustering  bully,  struck  the  table  with 
his  fist. 

"  All  right :  hold  your  row,"  muttered  the  shoemaker 
fretfully.  "  Julia,  get  Fistycuffs  a  pennyworth  o'  gin  !  " 
The  girl  stretched  across  her  brown  arm  for  the  bottle, 
throwing  little  Jaap  Avis,  as  she  did  so,  a  look  of  uncon- 
scious contempt.  "  And  fill  it  up  full !  "  grinned  the 
giant.  "  Don't  try  to  bully  me,"  retorted  Julia,  de- 
liberately spilling  a  great  splash  from  the  glass. 

At  this  juncture  her  father  entered.  In  th3  sudden 
silence  every  face  said — "  Well  ?  "  All  being  anxious 
to  put  the  same  question,  nobody  spoke.  Solemnly  the 
slow  barber  seated  himself. 

"  A — a — ah,"  he  said.  Then  he  wiped  his  forehead 
with  a  red  pocket-handkerchief.  "  Mum's  the  word,"  he 
said. 

"  Did  anybody  ask  ye  anything  ?  "  questioned  the 
bully.  Joop  Sloop  stared  straight  in  front  of  him. 
"  The  testamfent,"  he  continued  softly,  "  is  sealed. 
Mum's  the  word." 

Somebody  more  nervous  than  the  rest  spat  on  the  floor. 

"  And  the  fate  of  the  Hemel,"  whispered  Joop  Sloop, 
"  is  sealed  too." 

A  flash  of  covetousness  died  away  across  twenty 
cautiously  closing  eyes.  The  barber  leant  back  in  his 
chair,  secure  of  his  effect.  "  But  hush  !  "  he  said,  and 
put  one  finger  to  his  lips.  "  So  much  I  owe  to  Cousin 
Jan  !  " 

The  bully  stumbled  to  his  feet  and  came  heavily  for- 
ward. "  You'll  finish  now  that  you've  begun,  Joop 
Sloop  !  "  he  cried,  "  or  I'll  mash  your  potato  nose  into  a 
pancake,  Joop  Sloop !  "  He  thrust  up  a  great  dumpy 
fist :   the  girl  struck  it  down.     "  Two  goes  of  gin,"  she 

19 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

said  deliberately,  "  to  whoever  turns  the  drunken  rascal 
out !  " 

"  I'll  turn  myself  out,  if  you'll  gi'  me  the  drink," 
replied  the  fellow  coolly.  "  Boys,  you  all  heard  her  ! 
She  owes  me  twopennyworth  of  the  best  Schiedam  !  " 
He  grinned.  "  Best  or  worst,  'tis  all  equally  bad,"  he 
said — "  Pah  !  "  This  termination  seemed  to  exasperate 
Juha.  She  ran  round  the  counter.  "  Pack  o'  cowards  !  " 
she  screamed.  "  Smoke  your  pipes  and  see  me  Uck  the 
biggest  coward  amongst  ye !  "  A  lubberly,  yellow- 
haired  young  fellow,  who  had  been  dozing  on  a  settle, 
sprang  up  as  she  passed  him,  and,  pushing  her  down  on 
it  with  one  hand,  caught  the  bully  with  the  other  by 
the  scruff  of  the  neck.  "  Out  you  go !  "  he  said 
quietly.  They  could  all  hear  Fistycuffs  swearing, 
as  he  picked  himself  up  on  the  outer  side  of  the  bolted 
door. 

Then  Julia,  crossing  the  room  in  silence,  reached  down 
from  the  mantelshelf  a  brilliantly  painted  tumbler, 
"  Love's  Gift  "  in  a  wreath  of  forget-me-nots  and  roses, 
an  heirloom,  dusty  with  half -forgotten  honour  and  long- 
buried  affection.     The  others  looked  on. 

Careless  of  their  conclusions,  she  almost  filled  the 
undusted  goblet.  "  Strong  drinks  to  the  strong  !  "  she 
said  under  her  breath. 

"  No  more  liquor  for  me,"  replied  her  champion, 
plunging  both  red  hands  into  rusty  pockets.  The  girl's 
eyes  clouded  with  angry  tears. 

"  Please  yourself,"  she  answered  harshly  and  made  as 
if  she  would  have  dashed  her  offering  to  the  ground. 
But  she  only  poured  back  the  drink,  with  steady  hand, 
into  the  great  square  jar  beside  her. 

"  Won't  you  let  me  get  you  something,  Barend  ?  " 
20 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

she  questioned  softly,  and  began  polishing  the  painted 
flowers  with  a  slip  of  her  dirty  apron. 

"  Get  me  first  turn  at  the  shaving,"  answered  the 
young  fellow  ;  "  I'm  simply  sick  o'  waiting  here."  He 
flung  round  on  his  heel,  and  again  the  angry  blushes 
swept  over  Julia's  passionate  face.  "  Me  first,  Joop  !  " 
cried  Barend,  "  Julia  says  I'm  to  have  first  turn  !  I'm 
in  a  hurry,  don't  you  see  ?  Fistycuffs  is  waiting  for  me 
outside."  All  joined  in  his  laugh,  but  mildly,  not  caring 
to  remove  their  pipes. 

The  barber  bent  over  his  battered  kettle  and  further 
very  primitive  apparatus.  "  To  hear  you  go  on,  Barend 
Everts,"  said  Sloop,  "  one'd  think  you  were  Rothschild 
or  old  Jan  Hunkum  !  " 

"  Me  !  "  Suddenly  the  young  chap  disclosed  a  pair  of 
sleepy  blue  eyes. 

"  Yes,  you,"  retorted  the  barber  irritably.  "  I  sup- 
pose you  don't  care  to  know — not  you,  nor  nobody 
here  present — about  money  being  left  'em  in  a  will — oh, 
no !  "  He  started  round  with  uplifted  strap.  The 
various  countenances,  scattered  in  the  dusk  of  the 
paraffin-lamp,  twitched. 

"  But  surely  Jan  Hunkum's  money  is  gone,"  inter- 
posed Jaap  Avis  nervously,  protruding  his  big  head  from 
a  cloud  of  smoke. 

"  So  it  is — stolen,"  replied  Joop.  "  And  what  are  the 
police  for — pray — but  to  get  it  back  again  ?  " 

A  shout  of  derision  rang  out  around  the  words.  All 
their  pent-up,  disappointed  cupidity  poured  down  scorn 
on  the  police.  A  dozen  recent  undiscovered  murders 
filled  the  air  with  a  tumult  of  dispute.  "  Hush,  hush  !  " 
remonstrated  the  barber,  vainly  holding  up  his  hands. 
"  Hush  !     Remember,  the  police " 

21 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Never  see  what  isn't  shown  'em,"  said  a  grim  voice 
from  a  corner,  "  and  all  the  better  for  every  one  of  us." 
There  was  an  awkward  lull,  a  general  feeling  of  vexation. 

"  I  wouldn't  touch  a  penny  of  Hunkum's  money — no, 
not  if  the  pohce  was  to  come  and  bring  it  me."  Barend 
Everts  settled  himself  in  the  shaving-chair.  "  You 
needn't  sneer,  for  I  wouldn't,  Joop  Sloop.  I  wouldn't 
touch  money  that  the  dirty  Government  gives  you,  with 
their  testaments  and  notaries  and  God  knows  what ! 
Nor  I  wouldn't  let  any  man  give  me  money.  I'm  no 
beggar,  I  !     The  little  I  want  I  can  get  for  myself." 

"  Earn  for  yourself  ?  "  suggested  the  barber  sweetly, 
flourishing  his  razor. 

The  other's  ruddy  face  grew  dark.  "  Yes,  earn  for 
myself,  thank  God." 

"  God  ?  "  repeated  the  barber. 

"  Father,  hold  your  tongue  !  "  broke  in  Julia's  loudest 
tones.  "  Barend's  never  been  hauled  up  for  anything 
worse  than  poaching,  and  that's  more  than  the  best  of 
your  friends  can  say  for  you  !  " 

Joop  Sloop  ran  across  to  his  daughter.  "  You  fool !  " 
he  hissed.  "  But  it  isn't  me  you're  hurting  !  Idiot ! — 
to  tell  the  whole  room  that  you've  lost  your  black  heart 
to  a  lout  who  won't  look  at  you  !  " 

"  What  do  I  care  if  he  won't  look  at  me  ?  "  rephed  the 
girl  in  a  furious  whisper — "  as  long  as  I  can  look  at 
him  !  " 

"  Why,  a  poacher,"  suggested  Jaap  Avis  smoothly, 
"  a  poacher's  as  much  of  a  gent  as  any  other  sportsman. 
Money's  the  only  difference  between  them,  and  money 
never  made  a  gent,  as  the  baron  was  wont  to  say." 

"  Well,  the  soap's  cold,"  remarked  Barend  indif- 
ferently, still  lying  back,  "  you  must  make  some  fresh 

22 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

lather,  Joop.  And  all  for  one  cent.  One'd  think — but 
that  ail  know  better — it  was  you  didn't  care  for  tin. 
Well,  whom  has  old  Jan  left  his  money  to — the  money 
he  says  he's  no  longer  got  ?  " 

"  Will  you  stand  me  a  dram  if  I  tell  ?  "  said  the 
barber. 

Jaap  Avis  threw  down  his  florin.  "  I'll  pay,"  he  said. 
"  So  much,"  he  added,  mimicking  the  barber,  "  I  owe 
our  Cousin  Jan." 

Joop  Sloop  looked  round  the  company.  "Jan 
Hunkum,"  he  began,  amid  a  sudden  deepening  silence 
as  in  church — "  Jan  Hunkum  has  been  and  gone  and 
done  exactly  what  he  threatened  to.  He's  made  a  will. 
/  was  witness."  Joop  Sloop  drew  himself  up  and  then 
resumed  his  shaving.  "  He's  left  his  money  between 
his  heirs.  Each'U  get  his  legal  share  '  as  in  their  dota- 
tion,' *  to  use  the  proper  legal  phrase.  So,  when  he  dies 
— and  die  he  must — all  we  shall  have  to  do' 11  be  to  call 
on  the  notary  for  our  legacies.  But  there's  one  con- 
dition— he  said  there  would  be" — Joop  Sloop  looked 
round  triumphantly — "  a  sinecure  now.  Whoever  can 
be  proved  to  have  entered  his  house,  on  any  pretext 
whatever,  after  the  date  of  the  making  of  the  will,  loses 
all  chance  of  touching  a  penny  and  remains  disqualified 
forever.  So  now  you  know.  Amen."  He  recited  these 
last  sentences  like  a  lesson  aiid  once  more  fell  to  rasping 
Barend  Everts'  chin. 

"  And  no  legacies  specified  ?  "  Jaap  Avis  questioned 
anxiously.  "  No  distinctions  made  ?  "  No  favour 
shown  ?  " 

Joop  Sloop  smiled  with  leisurely  enjoyment  of  the  big 

1  "Ab  intestato." 
23 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

lie  he  was  going  to  tell.  "  Not  a  penny,"  he  answered 
loudly.  "  Everything  fair  and  square.  Share  and  share 
alike,  according  to  your  Bible  birthright." 

Barend  Everts  broke  away  from  under  the  knife. 
"  'Tis  a  rascally  shame,"  he  cried,  starting  up.  "  A  mean, 
beastly  shame  !  Just  the  kind  of  low  thing  for  one  old 
scoundrel  to  do  and  another  old  scoundrel  to  boast 
about." 

"  Softly,  softly,"  said  the  barber.  "  For  shame," 
expostulated  Avis.  "  Your  father  was  a  second  cousin, 
same  as  me." 

"  'Tis  a  shame  because  it  is  a  shame,"  retorted  Barend 
Everts.  "  Like  everything,  that's  a  shame.  And  if  I 
was  Government,  such  things  wouldn't  be  allowed. 
Though,  of  course,  if  I  was  Government,  I'd  be  as  bad 
as  Government  is." 

"  He  means  Liza  Brock,"  put  in  Julia  from  behind  the 
bar.  "  He  wants  Liza  Brock  to  have  old  Jan's  money. 
And  he  wants  to  marry  Liza  Brock.  Pity  her  name  ain't 
Liza  Hunkum,  Barend  ?  Sold,  my  boy  !  You'll  have 
to  marry  her  just  as  she  is."  She  jingled  the  money  in 
her  bag.     'Twas  only  coppers. 

The  great  simpleton  stared  right  and  left  in  angry 
amazement.  Then  he  found  natural  relief  in  a  tre- 
mendous oath,  and  fled,  upsetting  a  chair,  with  the  echo 
in  his  ears  of  inaudible  laughter. 

Outside  in  the  darkness  hung  the  grey  November  mist. 
The  rustle  of  its  unrelenting  drip  was  everywhere.  On 
the  bare  hedgerows,  down  the  scraggy  trees,  along  the 
tattered  eaves.  In  the  darkness  the  shiny  globules 
formed  and  fell  incessantly,  the  puddles  gleamed  across 
the  slippery  roadway  :    amid  the  windless  silence  all 

24 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

things  seemed  to  listen  for  the  next  pat,  and  the  next. 
The  air  was  raw  and  miserable.  Barend  stumbled  on, 
for  that  was  his  way  of  walking.  He  never  noticed 
damp. 

He  lighted  a  farthing  cigar,  the  weight  of  his  thoughts 
oppressing  him.  Active  indignation  confused  his  placidly 
discontented  brain.  He  was  one  who  took  life  easily, 
although,  or  more  probably  because,  they  feel,  with  a 
strong  man's  helplessness,  that  most  things  on  earth 
are  evil,  especially  the  Powers  that,  irrevocably,  Be. 
And  he  hated  oppression,  even  of  others. 

He  went  on  across  the  hazy  fields,  where  a  dim  light 
twinkled  here  and  there.  Presently  he  stood  still,  in  the 
dripping  desolation,  near  a  tumble-down  pig-stye,  and 
whistled.  He  whistled  again,  balancing  himself  against 
the  fence  of  roughly-hewn  firs,  the  rank  steam  rose 
around  him.  "  Hang  the  girl,"  he  said  aloud.  "  I 
thought  I  was  late  enough  !  " 

"  So  you  were,"  cried  a  voice  behind  the  pig-stye. 
"  And  I'd  leave  you  to  whistle  a  few  minutes  longer, 
Barend,  if  this  weren't  the  first  and  last  time  you'll 
whistle  for  me."  The  girl  came  round  the  corner  and 
confronted  him.  "  Well,  now,"  she  said  sullenly,  "  make 
haste.     Pray,  what  may  you  want  with  me  ?  " 

"  I  want  to  tell  you  that  I'm  sweet  on  you,"  he 
answered  sullenly  too. 

"  You've  told  me  that  before,"  she  retorted  angrily. 
As  angrily  as  a  woman  can.    Not  so  very  angrily. 

"  Well,  it's  as  true  now  as  then.     Truer." 

"  And  what  did  I  answer  you  at  the  time  ?  " 

"  You  know,"  he  said,  kicking  at  the  rotten  fence. 

"  Well,  that's  as  true  now  as  then.     Truer." 

"  Truer  ?  "    He  caught  at  the  word. 

25 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Truer.    ShaU  I  tell  you  why  ?  " 

"  Yes.    Tell  me." 

"I  won't.  Not  to-night,  at  any  rate.  I  can't.  Go  away." 

One  of  the  pigs  in  the  stye  moved  heavily.  "  And 
what  should  I  marry  you  f or  ?  "  the  girl  burst  out, 
goaded  by  his  sorrowful  silence.  "  What  have  you  to 
offer  me,  pray  ?  " 

There  followed  a  moment  of  derisive  exultation  on  her 
part,  then  Barend  gasped  forth  painfully,  with  the  air 
of  a  man  who  has  put  his  own  hand  to  his  throat — "  Liza, 
if  you  really  wanted  that,  I — could  make  you  a  rich 
woman,  Liza  !  " 

She  stared  at  him  curiously,  peering  forward,  pursing 
up  her  lips.  "  Rich  ? "  she  echoed.  "  ReaJ  rich, 
Barend  ?  Could  you  make  it  worth  my  while  ?  With  a 
blue  silk  dress  and  a  servant-girl  ?  Are  you  sure  and 
certain,  Barend,  you  could  let  me  have  a  girl  ?  " 

"  Sure,"  he  answered.  "  And  two  silk  dresses.  Oh, 
Liza,  were  you  really  wanting  that  ?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  be  rich,"  she  said  frankly. 

Then  she  laughed  shrilly  in  his  face,  and  the  next 
m.oment,  quite  seriously — 

"  So  it  was  you  took  old  Jan's  money  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,  I  didn't.     Though,  perhaps,  some  day  I  shall." 

The  night-mist  dropped  all  round  them.  And  although 
he  hardly  knew  it,  his  very  heart  was  dark. 

"  From  whom  ?  "  she  asked  breathlessly. 

"  Why — from  old  Hunkum."  She  gave  a  gasp  of 
relief.  "  Take  it  from  old  Hunkum  to  give  to  you.  For 
it  isn't  stolen  yet." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  What  do  you  know  ?  "  Her 
voice  still  trembled.  "  My  God !  who  could  rob  that  poor 
old  man  ?  " 

26 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"It  isn't  stolen,  I  tell  you.  Every  one  says  I'm  a  fool 
— I  suppose  I  am.  But  I've  seen  through  Jan  Hunkum's 
trick  at  any  rate.  P'raps  I  see  things  by  myself  at 
times  that  only  a  fool  can  see.  He's  thought  out  a  plan 
to  secure  himself  against  any  of  us  trying  to  rob  him. 
And  that's  where  this  will  comes  in — oh,  your  mother'U 
tell  you  about  the  will.  He's  got  his  money,  never  fear. 
'Tis  a  cunning  little  plot  that  one  fool  has  understood." 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  the  girl  retorted  scorn- 
fully. "  You  are  a  fool ;  you  know  that  everybody  says 
so.  And  the  florin  ? — how  about  Jaap  Avis'  florin  ? 
Could  you  ever  think  Jan  Hunkum  would  throw  a  florin 
away  ?  " 

"  I  don't  understand  about  the  florin,"  replied  the 
lover  humbly. 

"  There,  you  see  !  "  she  cried  in  triumph.  "  I  know 
Jan  Hunkum  better'n  you  !  Don't  I  take  him  his  bread 
every  morning,  regular  ?  And  he  always  says  '  Good- 
morning,  Liza,'  regular,  which  is  more  than  he  does  to 
any  one  else." 

"  Doesn't  he  ever  say  anything  more  ?  "  asked  Barend. 

"  Never  anything  more.  He  comes  outside  and  he 
says — '  Good-morning,  Liza,'  and  he  takes  his  loaf  and 
pays  his  pence  and  shuts  his  door,  and  I  go  on  to  my 
other  customers.  And  if  there's  a  change  in  the  price  of 
bread  he  always  knows." 

"  And  he's  never  said  a  kind  word  to  you  all  these 
years  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  say  a  kind  word  to  me  ?  " 

He  shrank  back  before  the  fierce  defiance  of  her  tone. 
"  Do  people  in  this  hell  of  a  place  say  kind  words  to  one 
another  ?  Love-making  words,  perhaps,  or  wheedling 
words  to  cheat  a  poor  girl  or  to  diddle  your  neighbour ; 

27 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

but  kind  words  ! — kind  ! — I  wonder  what  they  sound 
Uke  !  Psha  !  "  She  beat  the  ground  with  her  foot, 
turning  away. 

"  I'm  sorry  mine  don't  sound  kind,"  he  answered 
more  humbly  than  ever;   "  I  mean  'em  to." 

"  Psha  !  "  she  said  again. 

"  But  it  does  seem  to  me  that  Jan  Hunkum  ought  to 
be  special  good  to  you.  Special  good.  And  he  ought 
to  leave  his  money  to  you,  instead  of  wasting  it  on  a  lot 
of  lazy  cousins.  I  said  as  much  this  evening,  speaking 
for  myself  at  Joop  Sloop's " 

"  You  said  as  much  this  evening  at  Joop  Sloop's  ?  " 
She  came  close  to  him,  thrusting  her  clenched  fists  into 
his  face.  "  Oh,  you  brute,  you  cowardly  brute  !  I 
wish  I  was  a  man  like  yourself  to  thrash  you  for  it !  I 
hate  you.  To  think  of  your  insulting  me  like  that  before 
them  all !  " 

"  I  didn't  mention  names,"  protested  Barend. 

"  'Tis  a  he,  I  tell  you,  a  cowardly  lie,"  she  hurried  on 
without  heeding  him.  "  Jan  Hunkum's  not  my  father. 
I'm  as  respectable  as  the  rest  of  you  :  my  father  was  my 
mother's  husband  ;  my  name's  Eliza  Brock  !  "  She 
spat  out  the  words  in  the  fury  of  her  vindication,  her 
great  eyes  glared  through  the  moving  mist.  "  My 
mother's  a  respectable  woman  !  "  she  cried,  "  and  I'm  a 
respectable  woman  !  Liars  that  you  are  !  I've  always 
hated  all  of  you !  Brute !  My  name's  Eliza 
Brock  J" 

"  Yes,  hush — hush,  yes,"  he  stammered,  confusedly, 
bewildered  by  her  violence.  "  Make  it  Eliza  Everts, 
that's  all  I  ask  of  you." 

"  Oh,  hold  your  tongue,"  she  answered,  and  all  the 
fury  had  died  out  of  the  voice.     "  No,  I  won't  make  it 

28 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Liza  Everts,  because "    She  hesitated.     "I  wonder," 

she  said  reflectively,  "  shall  I  tell  you  because  why  ?  " 
"  No  need,"  he  said  bitterly.     "  You've  told  me  al- 
ready.    You  want  to  be  rich,  and  I'm  poor."     He  flung 
away  from  her,  out  of  sight. 


Ill 

Presently  he  stopped.  The  hovel  lay  behind  him,  in 
the  drizzle  and  the  mist.     He  stood  staring  at  nothing. 

"  Oh,  she  needn't  because  me  no  becauses.  I  felt  the 
because   in   her   voice,    plain   enough.     Lucky   fellow, 

whoever  he  is,  d him.     I  wonder  who  it  is  ?  "     He 

stumbled  forward  and,  as  he  went,  his  footfall  grew 
heavier  under  him,  with  deliberate  resolve. 

"  No,  not  with  all  the  money,  she'd  never  have  taken 
me,"  he  reasoned,  "  she  don't  want  the  money  for  her- 
self, I'd  never  believe  it  of  Liza.  She  wants  it  for  him. 
A  hundred  times  I've  wanted  it  for  her.  Well,  things 
are  altered  now.  As  she  wants  it,  I  suppose  she  must 
have  it.  I'd  better  speak  to  Mary  at  once."  He  turned 
aside  towards  the  yellow  blur  which  encircled  the  bar- 
ber's window.  "  Pleasant  work,  Barend,  you  fool,"  he 
thought,  "  finding  the  needy  for  a  rival !  " 

From  Joop  Sloop's  came  sounds  of  quarrelling  and 
cursing,  the  usual  Saturday  evening  row.  Just  as 
Barend  drew  near,  the  door  sprang  open  suddenly,  and, 
through  a  broad  torrent  of  lamplight  and  blasphemy,  a 
guttering  silver  piece  plashed  in  the  mud  at  his  feet. 

"  Cheat  your  own  sort,  if  you  can  !  "  yelled  the  barber. 
29 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  You  won't  get  a  soul  in  this  place  to  believe  tnat  Jan 
Hunkum  'd  give  you  a  counterfeit  coin  !  " 

"  And  I  swear  'tis  the  florin  I  picked  up  this  morning," 
Jaap  Avis  retorted  shyly.  He  appeared  in  the  hght  of 
the  doorway,  staggering  as  if  from  some  invisible  impetus. 
"  Hands  off,  you  seller  of  counterfeit  gin  !  Get  the 
Government  to  grant  you  a  licence,  and  don't  talk  of 
'  coiners '  to  me  !  And  give  me  my  money  back  in- 
stantly !     Give  it  me  instantly.  Sloop  !  " 

"  You  can  pick  it  up  whenever  you  choose,"  rang  the 
answer  in  Julia's  metallic  tones.  "  But  you  don't 
require  it  to  pay  me  the  twelve  stivers  you  owe  me — in 
coin  of  the  realm  !  " 

"  It  ts  a  bad  'un,"  said  Everts,  who  had  been  carefully 
testing  the  piece,  "  a  fine  bit  o'  work  any  man  might  be 
proud  of."  He  pushed  the  florin  into  its  owner's  hand 
and  entered  the  house.  He  understood  the  whole  thing 
now  with  fresh  admiration  of  old  Jan's  cunning.  Jaap 
Avis,  afraid  to  go  in  or  go  home,  stood  whining  in  the 
middle  of  the  road. 

"  Where's  Mary  Brock  ?  "  asked  Barend,  peering  into 
clouds  of  smoke.  The  louder  women  of  the  hamlet  often 
look  in  on  the  Saturday  shaving.  "  I  can't  tell  why,  for 
they  let  their  beards  grow,"  says  the  winking  village 
constable. 

"  Here  she  is,"  cried  Julia,  whose  red  cheeks  were 
empurpled  with  gin-fed  emotion.  "  Here,  Madame 
Mary  Brock,  here's  Mr.  Everts,  Poacher.  He's  come  to 
propose,  in  proper  form,  for  the  hand  of  your  lovely 
daughter  !     He  offers  himself  and  all  his  traps." 

"  Hang  you,"  said  the  violent-faced  woman,  and  rose 
to  her  feet.  Barend  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
quietly  contemplating  Julia.     "  You're  too  clever  by 

30 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

half,"  he  said.  "  What  an  awful  thing  it  'd  be  for  both 
if  you  was  to  marry  a  fool."  She  looked  straight  up  at 
him,  her  eyes  grown  suddenly  tender.  "  See  here,"  he 
hurried  on,  "  I  want  to  have  a  talk  with  Mary.  Let  us 
into  your  room — can't  you  ? — here  at  the  back." 

"  No — no — no  !  "  she  cried — the  words  sprang  from 
her  lips  like  a  troop  of  barking  dogs.  "  Go  out  into  the 
roadway — it's    raining — nobody    'd    ever   disturb    you 

there,  not  even "     She  laughed  and,  with  a  defiant 

flourish,  filled  up  her  half-empty  glass. 

"  Now  the  Lord  'a  mercy  on  me,  Barend  Everts,  and 
what  can  you  want  with  me  ?  "  said  the  woman  Brock. 
"  You  don't  expect  me — surely — to  help  you  make  love 
to  Liza  ?  " 

Barend  answered  her  meaningly — "  If  it  was  love  I'd 
been  after  I'd  never  'a  come  to  you."  He  reproached 
himself  for  those  cutting  words  as  soon  as  they  had  left 
his  lips.  It  was  Julia's  example,  he  fancied,  made  him 
spiteful,  not  his  overwhelming,  overbearing  wretchedness. 

"  Look  here,"  he  continued,  coming  close  to  her, 
"  I'm  going  to  do  what  you  want  me  to.  So  shut  up 
and  go  home." 

A  hot  light  filled  her  vehement  eyes.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand in  the  least,"  she  answered  significantly;  "but 
I  can't  stand  the  smell  in  here  any  longer.  So  good- 
night, Julia ;  have  a  chat  with  Barend.  Lord  bless 
you,  I  don't  mind !  "  And  she  lifted  up  her  nose  on 
high. 

"  Barend'll  please  himself,"  retorted  the  irate 
damsel,  "  without  asking  advice  of  you,  though  you 
certainly  might  be  his  mother !  But  you  ain't.  No, 
nor  his  mother-in-law,  as  yet.  Have  out  your  secret- 
with  him  presently.     Nice  little  secrets,  I  dare  say  !  " 

31 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

A  hoarse  laugh  went  up  from  all  present  :  even  the 
man  under  the  knife  grinned,  with  care. 

Barend  Everts  sat  himself  down  squarely,  and  called 
for  a  pennorth  o'  gin.  "  I  thought  you'd  had  Uquor 
enough,"  exclaimed  Julia,  aflame  with  resentment. 
"  Oh,  bother,"  he  answered  crossly,  "  that  was  an  hour 
ago."  He  sat  contemplating  his  massive  limbs,  in 
dull  repose.  He  was  the  strongest  man  in  the  room  : 
he  knew  the  fact,  good-humouredly ;  but  of  what  avail  is 
the  greatest  strength  that  a  woman's  laugh  can  break  ? 

He  got  up  again  and  slouched  out.  In  the  doorway 
he  looked  at  his  watch.  Five  minutes  to  ten.  As  he 
went  tramping  back  along  the  slushy  road  to  the 
Brocks'  outlying  hovel,  the  distant  chimes  of  Horstwyk 
faintly  struck  the  hour. 

About  halfway,  at  a  turn  of  the  road,  he  heard  a 
couple  of  voices  behind  a  hedge.  "  So,  then,  it's 
settled  for  twelve  to-night,"  a  man  was  saying.  Barend 
stopped. 

"  And  that'll  teach  the  old  skinflint  to  play  us  tricks," 
the  speaker  continued.  "  You  see,  the  richest  part  of 
it  is,  he  can't  even  run  to  the  police.  Why,  hasn't  he 
told  us  all  that  his  money  is  stolen  already  ?  Then, 
how  can  any  one  steal  it  to-night  ?  " 

"  Ha  !  Ha  !  Ha  !  "  laughed  another  voice.  "  He 
ought  to  have  waited  till  to-morrow." 

"  Hush.  Twelve,  mind  you.  Look  sharp."  The 
principal  speaker  came  breaking  through  the  hedge  as 
Barend  noisily  turned  the  corner.  The  two  rivals 
challenged  each  other  in  usual  peasant  fashion,  by  a 
suspiciously  spoken  "  Good-even." 

"  Fistycuffs,"  said  Barend,  "  were  you  waiting  for 
me  ?     Better  not  fight :  I'm  the  stronger." 

32 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  I'm  not  waiting  to  fight  you,"  swore  the  bully, 
"  I'm  waiting  for  a  girl." 

In  a  lightning  survey  of  the  nearest  cottages  all  pos- 
sibilities flashed  across  Barend's  brain.  Liza's  hut — 
thank  Heaven  ! — was  farthest  off,  a  tumble- down  shed 
by  the  dyke. 

"  I'm  waiting  for  a  girl,"  repeated  Fistycuffs :  "  some- 
thing must  have  happened,  for  she's  always  before  time. 
The  hussy,  to  keep  me  waiting  !  I'll  box  her  ears  if 
she  don't  come  soon." 

"  A  nice  girl  she  must  be,"  said  Barend,  scornfully, 
passing  him. 

"So  she  is  —  so  her  mother  thinks.  And  I. 
And — other  people.  I'm  going  to  marry  her  some 
day,  if  I  choose,  so  I  don't  mind  telling  you  her 
name."  He  put  himself  in  a  posture  of  possible 
defence.  "  'Tis  Liza  Brock,"  he  said.  Barend  faced 
round. 

"  Look  here,  you'd  better  fight  me,"  he  said 
gently.     "  Better  take  your  licking  that  way." 

"Fight!  Who's  talking  of  fighting?"  Fistycuffs 
began  to  retreat  in  alarm.  "  Don't  be  a  fool,  Barend 
Everts  !  Why  shouldn't  I  marry  a  girl  that's  in  love 
with  me  ?    And,  d me,  I  will !  " 

"  Do,"  said  Barend,  dropping  his  arm.  He  hastily 
continued  his  way. 

Presently  a  shadow  slipped  past  him,  along  the 
shiny  hedgerow.  He  turned  with  a  flood  of  scorn 
beating  against  his  teeth.      But  he  only  called  — 

"  Listen  to  me,  Liza,  a  moment,  please  !  " 

She  crept  back  sullenly,  angry  under  this  exposure. 
"  I  haven't  time,"  she  said,  hurrying  off. 

"  You're  not  really  going  to  marry  Fistycuffs  ?  " 

3  33 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Yes,  I  am.  So  now  you  know.  Well — that's  what 
I'd  like  to  have  lots  of  money  for." 

"  Hist !     He  won't  make  a  good  husband." 

"  He'll  make  a  good  husband  to  me." 

"  For  why  ?  " 

"  For  why  ?  Because  I  love  him,  Barend  Everts. 
Can't  you  understand  ?  " 

"Hist!  Don't  speak  too  loud.  Well,  you  ain't  got 
the  money  at  any  rate.  He'll  have  to  wait  a  precious 
long  time  for  that."  Suddenly  he  resolved  that  he 
would  not  help  her  to  secure  this  worthless  prize.  But 
he  was  a  clumsy  reader  of  woman's  thoughts. 

"  You  fool !  "  she  answered.    That  was  all. 

"  Liza,  you  only  think  you  love  him.  For  your 
own  sake,  Liza,  wait  a  few  months  and  make  sure." 

He  was  frightened  by  the  fury  this  suggestion  aroused 
in  her.  "  What  affair  is  it  of  yours,"  she  cried,  "  why 
I  marry  and  when  ?  So  mind  your  own  business  !  I 
shall  marry  him  in  rags  and  be  wretched,  and  love 
him  for  beating  me  because  Lm  as  poor  as  himself !  I 
shall  love  him  because  he's  wicked  and  worthless,  and 
brutal,  and  a  bully  !  Just  as  1  hate  you  because — 
because  you're  so  good,  and  a  fool !  " 

"  Liza  !  "  he  cried  with  the  cry  of  an  animal  in  pain. 

She  buried  her  face  in  both  hands,  sobbing.  "  I'm 
going  to  marry  him  in  a  fortnight's  time,"  she  mur- 
mured.    "  I  wouldn't  wait — if  I  could." 

"  Could  ?  "     In  spite  of  himself  his  voice  roughened. 

"  Ay  !  could.  You  talk  as  if  you  were  some  fine 
nobleman,  instead  of  just  Everts  of  the  Hemel.  Who 
are  we — if  you  please  ?  "     She  ran  sobbing  down  the  road. 

"  My  God  !  "  said  Barend  Everts.  Perhaps  it  was 
the  first  prayer  he  ever  uttered.     He  thought  no  othei 

34 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

thought  till  he  stood  in  Mary  Brock's  untidy  room — 
the  living-room  and  sleeping-room,  the  whole  untidy 
dwelling. 

Mary  Brock  sat  on  a  three-legged  stool  by  the  roaring 
fire.  She  had  borrowed,  from  some  neighbour,  an 
armful  of  stolen  sticks  :  the  room  was  far  too  hot.  Her 
clothes  were  inevitably  dirty,  but  she  had  smoothed 
them  somewhat,  and  damped  her  untidy  hair  into  still 
more  noticeable  disorder.  By  taking  off  her  cap  she 
had  unwittingly  imparted  a  naked  look  to  her  head  and 
shoulders ;  about  her  surroundings  there  seemed  a 
suggestion  of  putting  to  rights  which  made  all  the 
wrongs  stand  out. 

"  So !  "  she  said  in  welcome.  She  pointed  to  a 
couple  of  bloaters  which  lay,  a  brilliantly  golden  spot^ 
upon  the  dimly  illumined  table.  "  I  got  those  for 
you,"  she  said.  "  Leastways,  I  was  passing."  He 
sat  down  in  silence,  filling  his  mouth  with  the  fish. 

"  Well  ?  "  she  said,  without  any  sign  of  impatience. 
In  fact,  she  had  waited  until  she  saw  that  he  had  quite 
done  with  the  bloaters.  "  Well  ? "  He  lay  back, 
wiping  his  lips.  Suddenly  she  turned  round  on  him, 
her  black  eyes  ablaze. 

"  Oh,  no,  hang  it,"  he  answered,  and  thrust  back 
his  chair.  "  Why,  Mary,  I'm  after  your  daughter ! 
Leastways  '  wels.'  "  His  great  hands  dropped  beside 
his  chair  :  everything  about  him  seemed  to  fall. 

She  dashed  a  log  into  the  fireplace,  scattering  sparks 
and  ashes  far  across  the  room. 

"  You're  just  crazy  !  "  he  exclaimed  roughly.  "  You 
always  was.  I  can't  help  your  being  crazy.  Look  here, 
Mary  !    Can  you  listen  to  me,  like  a  woman  that's  sane  ?  " 

"  Not  if  you  tell  stories,  you  cheat !  " 

35 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  I  never  told  stories  to  you  and  I  never  cheated 
you.  I've  come  about  the  paper.  I  always  told  you 
I  should  never  use  it." 

"  Then  let  me  have  it  back  to  give  to  a  better  man 
than  you." 

"  And  this  evening,  at  Joop  Sloop's,  I  told  you  that 
I  would," 

"  So,  you  see,  you  lied  all  along  !  " 

He  took  no  notice  of  her  unreasoning  spite,  but 
continued  calmly — "  Everything's  changed  now.  She 
don't  want  me.  She  wants  money.  She  don't  want 
me.     That's  certain." 

"  You  might  have  known  that  six  months  ago." 

"Well,  I  didn't.  Not  for  certain.  Not  before 
to-night." 

She  kicked  at  the  fire.  "  I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "  glad, 
glad!" 

"  No,  you're  not :  I  don't  believe  it.  Oh,  don't  begin 
shouting  at  me.  I  know  exactly  what  you  wanted 
and  haven't  got." 

He  loosened  his  vest  and,  from  some  inner  pocket, 
drew  forth  a  faded  pocket-book.  Out  of  this  he  pro- 
duced a  bit  of  dingy  paper.  "  Here  it  is,"  he  said, 
spreading  it  carefully  out  upon  the  table  and  thereby 
adding  a  stain  from  his  bloatered  fingers.  "  Here  it 
is,  just  as  you  gave  it  me  six  months  ago."  She 
snatched  it  up  and  made  out  the  familiar  words  she 
could  not  have  read — 

"  This  is  to  certify  that  Widow  Brock's  daughter  Eliza 
is  my  child,  Jan  Hunkum."     And  the  place,  and  the  date. 

"  When  you  gave  me  that  six  months  ago,"  con- 
tinued Barend,  "  you  called  it  Liza's  dowry.  You 
wanted  me  to  use  it  against  Jan  Hunkum.     All  of  a 

36 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

sudden,  one  night,  you  put  it  into  my  hand.  *  Here,' 
you  said,  '  here's  Liza's  dowry.'  I  was  awful  glad  to 
have  it,  for  I  was  awful  sweet  on  Liza.  Do  you  know 
why  I  was  glad  to  have  it  ?  I'd  have  put  it  into  the 
fire  on  the  night  of  my  wedding-day." 

"  Burnt  it !  "  She  rose,  screaming.  "  Burnt  it,  you 
idiot !     Burnt !  " 

"  Bad  names  don't  break  no  bones,  Mary,  but  they 
don't,  neither,  sound  as  pretty  as  you  seem  to  think 
they  do.  Well,  there's  not  going  to  be  no  wedding- 
day — leastways,  not  for  me.  And  if  Liza  wants  money 
that  I  needn't  share,  she  must  have  it — seems  to  me, 
she  wants  it  quick  !  So  let  me  see  what  I  can  do  to 
help  her.  'Tisn't  a  pleasant  job,  so  I'll  get  it  over  at 
once." 

"  Barend,"  said  the  woman  by  the  fire,  "  you  was 
always  mighty  particular,  but  if  so  be  that  everything's 
over  'twixt  you  and  Liza " 

"  Hist!  "  he  said  imperiously.  The  woman  started  : 
her  dark  cheeks  sank.  When  she  spake  again,  her  voice 
had  changed  to  an  accustomed  beggar's  whine.  "  And 
the  poor  thing  never  doubts  but  she's  Luke  Brock's 
lawful  daughter,  and  he  gone  a  year  and  more  before 
her  birth,  and  me  a  poor  starving  widow  that  '  did ' 

for  the  wicked,  wheedling,  wealthy "     She  stopped. 

"  God  !  "  she  burst  out,  "  Now  that  he's  lost  his 
money,  you  come  with  your  stupid — or,  listen  to  me  !  " 
— her  voice  instinctively  dropped  to  a  whisper — "  Did 
you  take  the  money,  Barend  ?  You'll  do  the  right 
thing  by  us.  As  soon  as  I  heard,  this  morning,  I  thought 
that  it  must  be  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Barend. 

"  But  Liza  ! — she  flew  out  in    one    of    her    rages  ! 

37 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Barend,  she  says,  '11  never  catch  nothing  worth  having 
but  rabbits  and  hares." 

"  Did  she  say  that  ?  " 

"  Ay !  she  did.      She  knows  what  a  fool  you  are." 

Barend  meditatively  drew  his  finger  through  the 
grease  of  the  empty  dish. 

"  Give  me  a  third — no,  a  quarter,  Barend.  Then 
you  can  keep  the  rest  and  the  dockyment  and  Liza  too." 

Barend  Everts  stepped  back  roughly.     "  I  haven't 

got  the  money,"  he  said.     "  And  I  don't  want — d ! 

I  can't  get — the  girl.  Can't  you  understand  that  I 
wouldn't  take  a  penny  from  any  man  or  woman  living? 
'Tis  no  fault  of  mine.     I'm  made  that  way." 

"  But  you'd  take  hares,"  she  interrupted  spitefully. 

"  Now  that  it'll  never  be  for  me,  in  any  case,  I'll  go 
to  Jan  Hunkum  this  night  and  get  him  to  act  a  father's 
part  to  Liza,  if  I  can.  He's  alive  to-night,  at  any 
rate  ;  the  neighbours  say  he  groaned  all  day.  P'raps 
he's  ill.  I  don't  believe  about  the  robbery.  And  sup- 
posing he  was  to  die  to-night,  where'd  Liza  be  ?  Penni- 
less !  "     His  eyes  grew  wistful :  he  was  thinking. 

"  She'd  have  all  the  money,"  said  Mary  Brock. 

He  stared  at  her.  "  You  don't  know  Government," 
he  said.  "  Government  don't  give  poor  folks  money. 
By  George,  if  Jan  won't  act  a  father's  part  to  Liza,  I'll 
tell  him  this  bit  o'  paper'll  be  stuck  up  to-morrow 
morning  on  the  door  of  Horstwyk  ChurcK  !  " 

"  The  parson'd  pull  it  off,"  said  Mary.  Barend 
smiled  down  at  his  huge  fists. 

"  I  shouldn't  do  it,  in  course,"  he  said,  "  to  bring 
shame  on  Liza.  But  'tis  a  fair  threat,  and  I  hope  it'll 
bring  him  round." 

"  What  do  you  call  a  father's  part  ?  "  said  Mary. 
38 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  I  dunno.     My  father's  part  was  kicks." 

"  I'd  do  it  better  myself !  "  cried  Mary,  springing 
up  in  sudden  doubt.  "  Always  supposing  the  old 
rogue  gets  his  money  back  !  You're  that  good-natured 
and  simple,  you  don't  know  money's  worth.  I'd — 
I'd  always  made  up  my  mind  to  wait  till  the  moment 
he  was  dead,  then  I'd  have  taken  my  dockyment 
straight  to  the  Burgomaster,  and  he'd  'ave  given  me 
every  penny  of  which  my  lawful  daughter's  father  died 
possessed  !  She'll  be  a  rich  girl  some  day,  will  my 
lawful  daughter.  That's  why  I  wanted  you  to  have 
her,  Barend.     And  you  could,  if  you  choose." 

"  In  course  I  could,"  retorted  Barend  moodily 
"  That's  why  she's  sweet  on  Fistycuffs." 

Mary  Brock  again  kicked  the  faggots.  "  She's 
sweet  on  Fistycuffs,  and  when  she's  done  being  sweet  on 
Fistycuffs,  she'll  want  to  marry  you  !  " 

"  I'd  thank  you  for  no  man's  leavings." 

"  Please  yourself.  But  when  a  man  loves  a  woman 
like  you  love  Liza,  the  best  thing  he  can  do  is  to  love 
her  for  better  and  for  worse.  He  can't  help  himself. 
Lor !  'Tis  no  man's  leavings.  Mark  my  word !  she 
loves  you — and  she's  in  love  with  Fistycuffs.  And 
if  you  weren't  a  fool,  you'd  take  what  you  can  get." 

"  And  as  I  am  a  fool,"  he  cried,  banging  his  fist  on 
the  table — "  Give  me  that  paper  back,  and  let  me  go  !  " 

"  Lord  !  "  said  the  woman,  in  astonishment.  Pre- 
sently she  held  out  the  dirty  scrap  in  silence.  He  took 
it,  rose,  and  buttoned  it  out  of  sight. 

"  Never  you  talk,"  he  said,  "  of  taking  this  to  Bur- 
gomasters. Once  Jan  Hunkum  is  dead,  'tis  a  bit  of 
waste  paper." 

She  made  no  reply,  turning  her  back  on  him  and  on 
the  light.  ^^ 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  'Cause  I  know,"  he  continued,  nettled.  "  For 
why  ?  Once  a  man  dies — in  our  class  of  life — his 
mother  goes  to  the  lawyers.  My  mother — she  came 
from  beyond  the  Rhine,  you  know — she  had  an  aunt 
that  died  and  left  a  hundred  thousand  guilders — a 
hundred  thousand  guilders.  There  was  thirteen  heirs 
turned  up  and  seven  lawyers,  and  in  all  the  five  years 
till  mother  died  she  got  two  thousand  paid  her — and 
oh,  the  heartsore  and  worry  of  getting  that !  She  left 
it  all  in  the  Bank  at  Dordrecht,  and  two  years  later 
they  wrote  to  say  it  had  all  got  lost  in  shares  !  Shares 
for  the  lawyers,  I  s'pose  they  meant,  and  for  themselves 
and  Government.  We  never  got  a  penny.  Oh,  that's 
why  I  hate  the  sight  of  a  broadcloth  coat  in  the  streets, 
Mary.     If  it  belongs  to  the  man  inside — he's  stolen  it !  " 

She  took  no  notice. 

In  the  doorway  he  stopped.  "  Kind  thanks  for  the 
bloaters,  Mary,"  he  said,  and,  as  she  neither  turned 
nor  answered  him,  he  slammed  the  door. 


IV 

Outside,  he  looked  at  his  watch,  a  great,  absurd  thing, 
like  a  tin  bun.  The  dull  flare  from  the  clouded  window 
fell  across  its  face. 

"Nearly  eleven,"  he  said,  "and  they  settled  for  twelve." 
The  mist  had  thickened  to  a  steady  downpour.     The 
ground  was  steaming  ;    the  desolate  expanse,  with  its 
scattered  hovels  and  black  potato-plots,  lay  pitchy  dark. 
As  he  went  along,  Barend's  thoughts  were  of  the  mis- 
creants preparing  to  attack  old  Hunkum.     Apparently 

40 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

they  were  pleasant  thoughts,  for  he  kept  complacently 
slapping  his  heavy  thighs. 

Presently  the  yellow  zone  of  gravel  shone  in  front  of 
him.     He  crunched  across  it  towards  the  silent  door. 

He  was  about  to  knock,  but  checked  himself.  The 
old  man  inside  was  stone  deaf,  when  he  chose,  and  would 
certainly  never  open,  however  plainly  he  might  hear.  An 
intending  visitor,  at  this  hour — or  at  any  other,  unless 
the  man  had  been  invited — could  only  obtain  admittance 
by  forcing  his  way  in.  Barend  passed  slowly  round  the 
little  house,  inspecting  its  irresponsive  shutters.  Fool- 
ishly enough,  he  had  not  foreseen  this  difficulty.  The 
faint  chimes  from  Horstwyk  steeple  came  thrilling 
through  the  night. 

At  the  back  of  the  house,  by  the  kitchen-entry,  was  a 
little  window,  with  bars  outside.  Before  this  he  stood 
half  a  minute,  meditating  ;  then,  with  a  swift  clench  of 
both  fists,  he  tore  one  of  the  bars  toward  him.  It  came 
away  shrieking,  amongst  a  shower  of  splinters  from  the 
broken  window-frame.  One  moment  he  waited,  gasping 
for  breath.  Then  he  wrenched  out  a  second  bar,  and  a 
third  ;  the  great  beads  of  perspiration  stood  cold  upon 
his  forehead.  With  the  formidable  weapon  he  now  held 
in  his  hands  he  struck  aside  the  glass  panes  and  the 
shutter  behind  them,  and  so  passed  into  a  tiny  pantry, 
groping  his  way  amongst  empty  shelves. 

He  listened,  expectant.  Amidst  the  swash  of  the  rain 
outside  a  sudden  creak  of  timber  told  him  how  undis- 
turbed the  stillness  of  the  house  remained.  He  found 
no  difficulty  in  forcing  the  lock  of  the  pantry  door,  and  so 
obtained  admittance  to  the  passage,  also  dark.  Here  he 
hung  back,  for  the  awe  of  the  living  silence  fell  upon 
him. 

41 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Over  yonder's  his  bedroom  door,"  he  reflected. 
"  How  early  the  old  man  goes  to  bed.  And  to  sleep  ? 
Old  people  don't  sleep  much,  they  say.  Surely  this  one 
shouldn't."  He  hated  Liza's  father,  with  all  the  con- 
tempt of  a  diametrically  opposite  nature.  Indolence  and 
wastefulness  were  the  faults  he  condoned. 

He  pushed  along  the  wall  to  the  door  through  which 
he  had  passed  that  morning  with  all  the  rest.  It  was  a 
queer  thought  that  here  he  was  burglariously  entering 
Jan  Hunkum's  house,  to  protect  Jan  Hunkum's  property 
on  every  Hemeler's  behalf  except  his  own  ! 

And  now,  as  his  fingers  touched  the  handle,  he  felt 
that  his  night's  work  was  going  to  begin.  There  was  no 
light  whatever  visible  from  the  inside.  Presumably, 
therefore,  the  room  was  as  dark  as  the  rest  of  the  house. 
Or  was  it  possible  so  laboriously  to  close  up  all  the  chinks 
that  not  a  ray  could  pierce  panel  or  shutter  ?  Was  it 
thinkable  that,  behind  this  enclosing  blackness,  there 
should  be  light  and  life  ?  Perhaps,  even  now,  the  old 
man,  sitting  up  in  the  great  green  bedstead,  was  watching 
with  dilated  eyeballs  each  twist  of  the  door-knob  ?  The 
suspense  of  these  invisible  eyes  became  unbearable  to 
Barend  :  he  flung  his  full  weight  against  the  door,  and, 
as  it  broke  away  before  him,  he  fell  forward  into  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

A  bright  lamp  stood  on  the  table  by  the  bed.  Jan 
Hunkum  sat  erect,  against  the  pillows,  without  sign  of 
hurt  or  sickness,  his  skinny  red  face  in  a  tremble,  the 
grey  locks,  under  the  knitted  nightcap,  dark  upon  his 
contorted  brows.  On  the  table  lay  piled  a  heap  of 
papers,  under  the  glare  of  the  lamp — business  papers, 
mortgages,  bonds — some  of  them  had  fallen  to  the  floor 
beside  a  gaping  money-chest ;   others  mingled  on  the 

42 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

counterpane  with  bundles  of  banknotes  and  a  glitter  of 
scattered  gold.  The  intruder  started  back  before  the 
agonized  appeal  of  the  old  man's  motionless  stare. 

"  I  haven't  come  to  hurt  you !  "  he  shouted. 
"  Haven't  come  to  rob  you,  don't  you  hear  ?  "  There 
was  no  response  whatever.  "  Haven't  come  to  rob 
you,"  he  repeated,  "  rob  you,  rob  you."  Old  Hunkum 
lifted  a  shaky  finger  and  pointed  to  the  iron  bar.  Barend 
dropped  it  impatiently,  from  his  unconscious  grasp,  on 
the  foot  of  the  great  green  bed. 

He  drew  nearer  to  explain  his  object,  and  in  doing  so 
struck  against  the  open  chest,  evoking  a  gentle  jingle 
from  its  depths.  The  miser  shrieked  in  eager  response 
and  flung  himself  across  the  widespread  treasures  in 
front  of  him,  his  hooked  fingers  gathering  up  banknotes 
and  tumble-down  piles  of  metal,  in  a  vain  endeavour  to 
cover  them  all,  as  a  hen  her  too  numerous  brood.  The 
nightshirt  fell  open  from  his  panting  chest ;  his  whole 
face  was  now  working ;  his  scream  died  away  to  a 
crooning  appeal  still  more  piteous  to  hear. 

"  Now,  listen  to  me,"  cried  Barend,  bending  over  him. 
"  Listen  to  me,  Jan  Hunkum,  and  do  as  you  please. 
But  I've  come  to  help  you — to  help  you,  so  help  me  God  ! 
Do  you  believe  me  now  ?  In  less  than  an  hour  a  couple 
of  scoundrels  will  be  here — burglars — coming  to  rob 
you — coming  to  kill  you.  And  I'll  help  you — do  you 
hear  me  ? — against  them — help  you." 

The  old  man  still  bent  forward,  staring  his  terrified, 
unmeaning  stare,  and  impotently  raking  the  counter- 
pane. 

"  There's  no  time  to  lose,  so  I'd  better  be  very  plain,' 
continued   Barend,   bending   his   burly   form   between 
Hunkum's  face  and  the  lamp.     "  I'll  help  you  to  keep 

43 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

your  confounded  cash,  but,  by  Heaven,  if  I  do,  Jan 
Hunkum,  you  must  make  an  honest  use  of  a  httle  of  it 
at  last !  I've  got  in  my  pocket  here  " — he  slapped  his 
chest — "  the  paper  you  wrote  for  Mary  Brock.  Liza's 
your  child,  Jan  Hunkum.  I  don't  want  to  call  an  old 
man  names,  but  twenty  years  ago — I  will  say  that — 
you  weren't  a  better  man  than  you  are  to-day.  Liza's 
your  child,  bought  with  bread  !  If  you  want  to  keep 
the  rest  of  all  this  stuff  here  you  said  was  stolen,  you 
must  give  me  an  honest  lump  of  it — a  good,  fair,  honest 
lump  of  it — for  your  daughter  Liza  to-night !  "  He 
caught  up  a  handful  of  banknotes  and  scattered  them 
loosely  over  the  floor. 

Then  Jan  Hunkum  found  rapid  speech.  "  Pity  a 
poor  old  man,"  he  said  hoarsely.  "  Have  mercy  on  a 
poor  old  man,  a  poor  old  man."  His  visitor  stood  look- 
ing down  on  him,  with  squarely-folded  arms. 

"  Liza  Brock's  going  to  marry,"  Barend  said.  The 
old  man  cast  up  at  him  a  quick  leer  of  contemptuous 
penetration.  "  She's  going  to  marry,"  Barend  con- 
tinued steadily,  "  a  good-for-nothing  brute.  As  long  as 
she's  able  to  support  him,  he  won't  ill-treat  her.  So  you 
must  settle  the  money  on  your  daughter — say  ten 
thousand  guilders — you  must  give  them  me  to  take  away 
to-night.  You're  not  listening  :  I  don't  believe  you 
hear  me.  It  doesn't  matter."  He  raised  his  voice. 
"  Ten  thousand  florins  to-night,  at  once,  for  your 
daughter  Liza — or  I  leave  you  to  your  fate  !  " 

"  Have  pity  on  a  poor  old  man,"  said  the  miser. 

"  Leave  you  to  be  robbed  of  every  penny  lying  here 
— and  you  will  be  !  "  Barend  forgot  his  professed 
respect  for  old  age.  "  And  why  shouldn't  I,  you  thief  ?  " 
he  cried.     "  Why  shouldn't  other  thieves  have  as  much 

44 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

right  to  the  gold  as  you  ?  "  He  unloosened  his  arms. 
His  eyes  flashed. 

"  To  all  my  relations,  when  I  die,"  mumbled  the  miser. 
"  To  you,  and  the  rest.  You're  my  cousin  also,  Barend 
Everts.  First  cousin  once  removed.  I'm  an  old  man. 
I  only  want  to  die  in  peace." 

"  You  lie,"  said  Barend  sternly.  "  By  entering  this 
house  to-night,  I  have  given  up  all  chance  of  any  share 
in  your  inheritance.  I  know  it ;  we  all  know  it.  You 
lie."  He  picked  up  a  ten-guilder  note.  "  I  don't  want 
your  dirty  money,"  he  added,  slowly.  "  Some  small 
share — as  much  as  this  ? — would  have  come  to  me  some 
day,  I  suppose.  Let  me  have  it  now,  so  you  may  see 
for  yourself  what  I  do  with  it !  "  He  waved  the  flimsy 
scrap  of  paper  over  the  lamp.  To  his  astonishment  the 
old  man  leaped  aloft  and  fell  upon  him,  tearing  it 
away. 

"  Gently,"  said  Barend,  stepping  back. 

"  It's  blackmail ! "  cried  Jan  Hunkum  furiously. 
"  It's  infamous  imposture  and  robbery  !  Why  don't 
you  kill  me  at  once  and  have  done  with  me  ?  Take  all 
the  money  and  kill  me  and  go,  you  hulking  beast  of  a 
poacher !  " 

For  answer  Barend  drew  forth  his  precious  document 
and  held  it  on  high.  "  Do  you  recognize  this  or  not  ?  " 
he  asked.  "  Do  you  dare  to  deny  that  Liza  is  your 
child  ?  " 

The  miser  sank  back  among  his  pillows.  "  I  deny 
nothing,"  he  said.  "  I'll  leave  her  ten  thousand  guilders. 
rU  leave  her  twenty  thousand.  Be  a  good  husband  to 
her.  I'll  leave  you  twenty  thousand  guilders.  Go  away 
now.     I'll  make  a  new,  expensive  will." 

"  She  shan't  wait  till  you're  dead  !  "  exclaimed  Barend, 

45 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

brandishing  his  document.  "  For  one  thing,  she'd  never 
get  a  penny  !  Once  you're  dead,  all  your  money  will 
go  to  the  notaries  and  Government !  That's  a  pleasant 
reflection — the  notaries  and  Government.  So  now,  while 
you've  got  it,  give  a  little  to  your  daughter  that  needs 
it !  Your  daughter  that's  in  rags  and  in — give  it  her  ! 
Give  it  her  at  once  !  "  He  began  passionately  shuffling 
the  papers  that  lay  on  the  table  ;  his  broad  shadow 
darkened  the  bed.  "  I  see  you  don't  believe  a  single 
word  of  all  that  I've  been  saying.  It's  true,  all  the  same, 
and  I'll  settle  those  fellows  for  you  in  a  jiffy.  But  you 
give  me  the  money  for  Liza !  Look  here  ;  I  don't  under- 
stand about  these  papers." 

He  did  not  perceive  that  the  old  man's  arm  went 
stealthily  gliding  down  to  the  bed-foot,  down  to  the  iron 
bar  which  lay  there.  "  Now,  for  instance,  tell  me 
honestly,  what  is  this  bundle  worth  ?  "  He  turned,  and, 
in  turning,  sprang  aside  :  the  heavy  bar  came  whizzing 
past  him  ;  his  arm,  thrown  up  in  hasty  self-defence, 
upset  the  petroleum  lamp.  With  a  crash  it  exploded, 
amongst  a  sudden  blaze  of  papers  :  the  yellow  flames 
ran  up  the  thin  green  curtains  of  the  bed.  The  miser's 
murderous  weapon  clanged  upon  the  money-chest ;  the 
old  man  himself,  borne  down  by  the  weight  of  his  futile 
blow,  fell  forward,  right  into  the  flames.  He  did  not 
seem  to  feel  or,  if  he  felt,  to  regard  the  spread  of  the 
swift  conflagration,  but  plunged  frantically  deeper,  his 
naked  arms  outstretched,  clutching  at  the  charred  frag- 
ments that  sailed  away  everywhere  around  him  on 
broadening  rivers  of  fire,  while  from  his  lips  all  the  time 
broke  a  rapid  succession  of  moans  like  the  plaint  of  a 
wounded  beast.  Barend,  in  his  first  bewilderment,  had 
run  to  the  washstand,  ignorantly  seeking  fuel  for  the 

46 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

furnace  :  to  his  open-mouthed  amazement  it  seemed 
Hke  a  judgment  from  Heaven  that  water  should  cause 
flames  to  increase  !  But  after  a  moment  of  stupefied 
staring,  he  flung  himself  into  the  burning  mass  and 
dragged  out  the  old  man,  who  shrieked  and  struck 
wildly  again  and  again  in  the  fierceness  of  unavaihng 
resistance,  amid  the  crackle  of  paper  and  the  clatter  of 
gold.  Desperately  fighting  his  way  to  the  bed,  Barend 
tore  himself  loose  from  the  miser's  clutches,  and  sprang 
to  pull  down  the  blazing  hangings  and  to  cast  the  dead 
blackness  of  the  bedclothes — the  counterpane,  the 
mattresses,  the  coat  off  his  own  back — across  the  abysm 
of  flame  and  smoke.  In  another  moment  it  was  all  over. 
He  stood,  uncertain,  in  utter  darkness  and  dirt. 

Presently  he  struck  a  match,  and  found  a  tallow  candle, 
and,  coughing  away  the  clouds  around  him,  he  looked 
round.  Jan  Hunkum  lay  on  the  floor,  his  right  hand 
once  more  fiercely  clasping  the  murderous  iron  bar ; 
his  eyes  were  closed  :  there  was  a  splatter  of  blood  all 
about  him. 

Barend  Everts  knew  nothing  of  sickness,  and  little  of 
death.  His  father  had  been  shot  in  a  poaching  affray  ; 
his  mother  had  died  in  a  fit :  for  the  rest,  his  pathological 
experiences  were  confined  to  the  animal  world.  When 
a  hare  had  a  hole  like  that  behind  its  ears  it  was  done  for. 
He  gently  turned  the  old  man  on  his  back  again  :  the 
eyes  were  dull ;  the  breath  had  stopped.  Jan  Hunkum 
was  dead  :  he,  Barend  Everts,  was  somehow  mixed  up 
with  his  death.  The  miser  must  have  fallen — perhaps 
in  taking  fresh  aim  ? — and  in  falling  must  have  struck 
against  a  corner  of  the  chest.  But  what  did  these  par- 
ticulars matter  ?  When  Government  finds  a  man  killed 
and  a  hve  man  beside  him,  it  says  that  the  live  man  has 

47 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

murdered   the    dead  one — at  least,  if  the  live  man's 
poor. 

There  was  no  more  to  be  done  for  Jan  Hunkum. 
Barend  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and  ran  from  the  room. 

He  struck  his  elbow  against  the  wall  of  the  passage — 
he  struck  his  face  against  the  wall  of  the  pantry — at  last 
he  was  out  of  the  window,  out  in  the  rain. 

He  tried  to  understand  what  had  happened.  His 
heart  throbbed  into  his  brain.  He  couldn't,  and  once 
more  he  hated  himself  for  a  fool.  It  was  he  who  had 
upset  the  lamp.  He  wondered  :  had  he  murdered  Jan 
Hunkum  twice — from  a  legal  point  of  view  ?  Did  they 
punish  you  twice,  if  so  ?  He  knew  nothing  of  legal 
subtleties,  except  that  they  invariably  exculpate  the 
wealthy  and  inculpate  the  poor. 

He  wished  the  night  was  darker.  It  was  horribly, 
brutally  light.  He  could  not  remain  standing  there 
on  the  shiny  gravel :  the  whole  world  was  watching 
him,  before  and  behind  —  especially  behind  —  from  a 
thousand  staring  eyes.  He  flung  himself  to  the  ground 
and  crept,  on  hands  and  feet,  across  the  soaked  potato- 
fields. 

He  laboriously  reached  a  plantation  of  oak  brush- 
wood, and  in  a  dry  ditch  alongside  it  sank  panting. 
Baronial  brushwood,  he  reflected  bitterly — anxiously. 
The  Great — the  Government — the  vague,  ever-present 
Oppressor  !  He  looked  down  at  his  clothes,  at  his  hands. 
He  was  all  over  slimy  clay,  miserably  dirty.  A  good 
thing  he  had  on  his  grey  work-a-day  shirt,  not  to- 
morrow's shiny  white  one.  Yonder,  that  twinkle  far 
down  along  the  ditch  was  Liza's  hovel.  Jan  Hunkum 
was  dead.  Well,  Fistycuffs  might  come  and  take  the 
money  now.     He,  just  as  well  as  the  Government. 

48 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 


'  But  you  love  me,  Fisty  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Say  you  love  me,  then  !  " 

"  In  course  I  love  you,  confound  you." 

"  Kiss  me,  then." 

"  Not  I.     Not  as  long  as  you  call  me  Fisty." 

"  But,  Ferdy,  I  like  to  call  you  Fisty.  It  sounds 
strong.     Like  as  if  you  could  beat  me." 

"  So  I  could  beat  you.  And  so  I  will,  if  you  go  on 
forgetting  my  name's  Ferdinand." 

"  Could — could  !  "  She  drew  herself  up  haughtily, 
and  leisurely  inspected  her  naked  brown  arm.  Then  she 
fell  back  into  her  former  tone.  "  Don't  be  disagreeable, 
Ferdy.  I  love  you  so.  If  you  only  loved  me  as  I 
love  you !  " 

He  shook  himself  impatiently.  "  And  what  am  I 
marrying  you  for  ?  "  he  said.  "  Your  money,  I  sup- 
pose ?  " 

"  Don't,  Ferdy.  You'd  like  me  to  have  money, 
shouldn't  you  ? — I  wish  I  had  ;  I  wish  I  had." 

Her  voice  grew  miserable,  for  the  shadow  crossed  her 
soul  of  a  love  which  longed  for  gold — to  give  it  her  ! 

He  had  been  lolling  against  the  pig-stye  ;  his  manner 
suddenly  grew  businesshke.  "  Why,  what  a  fool  I 
am  !  "  he  said.  "  I  never  thought  of  it  before  !  Look 
here,  you're  as  strong  as  a  man,  Liza — though  I  could 
lick  you  with  half  a  hand — you  could  do  a  man's  work 
any  day,  couldn't  you  ?  " 

"  Couldn't  I  ?  "  said  Liza  proudly.  "  And — what's 
more  ! — when  we're  married,  I  will.  I'll  work  for  you 
4  49 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

all  day  long,  Ferdy,  like  mother  worked  for  father,  and 
Aunt  Judy  works  for  uncle,  and " 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  do,"  he  interrupted  impatiently. 
"  You  women  always  talk  as  if  we  did  nothing.  As  if 
watching  all  night  for  rabbits  were  nothing,  with  the 
beastly  moonlight,  and  all  the  risk,  and  things  !  But  I 
didn't  want  to  bother  about  that.  Curse  the  stupid 
chatter.  Look  here,  Liza  Brock,  you  want  to  marry 
me,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  do,"  she  said,  and  took  his  hand  and  kissed  it. 

He  shook  her  off. 

"  And  the  sooner  the  better  ?  " 

"  The  sooner  the  better,  indeed  !  "  Her  voice  trem- 
bled.    She  folded  her  hands  in  front  of  her. 

"  Then  the  sooner  we've  got  the  necessary  funds,  the 
better  for  us  both,"  he  said  doggedly.  "  I'm  not  going 
to  marry  you  till  then,  mind  that." 

"  I  haven't  got  any  money,  and  I  can't  get  any,  Ferdy. 
I  shouldn't  know  how.     But  once  we're  married,  I'll — " 

"  Oh,  stop  your  confounded  bleating.  It's  I  will  get 
the  money,  but  you  can  lend  a  hand.  I'm  going  to  leave 
this  confounded  hole  and  take  you  with  me.  I'm  going 
to  be  a  fine  gentleman,  Liza,  and  you  shall  be  a  lady. 
The  thing  'd  have  been  done  by  now  but  that  long- 
armed  Pete — the  funk ! — pretended  he  heard  a  noise. 
No  ma'.ter  :  he  won't  split :  there'll  be  all  the  more  for 
us." 

'■  It  is  late — past  twelve,"  said  Liza  nervously.  "  I 
must  be  getting  back  through  the  window.  Mother 
will  find  me  out." 

"  What,  you  funking  too  !  "  cried  the  man  with  a 
thunderous  oath.  "  Look  you  here  :  I  haven't  called 
you  out  for  any  fooling,  mind  you.     Listen  to  me.     You 

50 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

must  help  me  to-night  to  get  Jan  Hunkum's  money. 
It's  a  beastly  shame,  this  new-made  will  of  his,  that 
every  one's  talking  about ! — wasting  all  his  money 
where  it  can't  do  nobody  no  good.  We'll  get  it,  and 
away  to  America  to-morrow  !  I  shall  have  to  give 
something  to  Pete,  I  suppose,  and  he  and  his  noises  be 
hanged." 

He  had  hstened  to  his  own  voice  in  speaking.  A 
long  silence  ensued. 

"  I'm  not  a  thief,"  said  Liza,  almost  inaudibly. 

"  Aren't  you  ?  Well,  then,  you're  a  thief's  wife.  I 
could  do  it  by  myself,  if  I  didn't  feel  a  bit  uncomfortable 
about  that  creepy  noise." 

"  Oh,  Fisty,  don't.  There's  no  money,  Fisty.  Why, 
it  was  stolen  away  last  night — you  know  it  was — and 
old  Hunkum  half  murdered.  Didn't  you  see  him  this 
morning,  with  his  head  done  up  in  bandages  ?  There 
isn't  any  money  there — I  know  there  isn't — there 
isn't " 

He  struck  at  her,  and  she  started  back.  "  Hold  your 
jaw,  you  fool  !  "  he  blustered.  "I  can  see  through  the 
cunning  old  devil,  if  you  cannot.  Nobody  can  among 
these  drunken  idiots,  and  that's  my  chance  !  Fetching 
the  plunder  away  to-night's  as  safe  as  safe  can  be.  He 
can  never  say  he's  been  robbed  to-night,  for  there's 
nothing  left  to  take  !  "     He  laughed. 

"  I  don't  care.  I'm  not  a  thief,"  said  Liza  Brock. 
And  she  added  in  a  lower  key — "  Supposing  I  was,  of 
all  the  people  in  the  world,  I  wouldn't  rob  Jan 
Hunkum." 

"  Whew  !  "  said  Fistycuffs.  Then  he  burst  out — 
"  So  that's  what  you  flaunt  in  my  face,  do  you  ?  A 
nice  respectable  sort  of  person  you  are  to  have  moral 

51 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

sentiments !  Why,  you  idiot,  it's  no  robbery  in  your 
case ;  that's  where  the  moral  sentiments  comes  in  ! 
It's  taking  your  own — what  belongs  to  you — from  an 
unnatural  old  wretch  who  wants  to  waste  it  upon 
strangers.  That's  what  I  feel  all  along.  Now  that 
I'm  going  to  marry  Jan  Hunkum's  daughter,  it's  my 
duty  to  her — to  you,  don't  you  see  ? — to  secure  the 
inheritance  of  which  he's  defrauding  her."  He  mis- 
pronounced the  word  "  defrauding,"  but  he  rolled 
out  the  whole  long  sentence  like  a  much-repeated 
task. 

A  horrible  light  flared  up  in  her  heart,  but  she  beat 
it  down.  "  It's  a  lie  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  No,  I  don't 
mean  that,  Ferdy,  but  you  do  worrit  one  so  !  It's  all 
a  lie  got  up  against  mother  and  me.  It's  all  Aunt 
Judy's  doing,  the  hateful,  spiteful  thing !  Mother's 
as  honest  as  the  best  of  them.  I  don't  say  she  don't 
drink  !  I  don't  say  she  don't  swear  !  That'd  be  silly 
of  me.  But  she's  honest — do  you  hear  ? — as  the  best 
of  them  !  I  like  Jan  Hunkum,  'cause  he  says  '  Good- 
day  '  to  me,  mornings,  regular,  when  I  take  round  the 
bread.  That's  his  way  of  being  kind.  And  I  won't  have 
him  robbed,  so  there  !  " 

"  You  won't,  will  you  ?  You  won't  ?  Take  that." 
His  patience  was  overwrought ;  he  stepped  forward 
and  slapped  her  cheek  with  the  full  force  of  his  open 
hand. 

"  Don't,"  she  said,     "  Don't,  Ferdy  !  " 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  up  to  Jan  Hunkum's,  or 
will  you  have  some  more  ?  " 

"  I'll  have  some  more,"  she  said. 

He  struck  her  again  and  again,  till,  wearied  of  his 
blows,  or  perhaps  inflamed  by  them,  she  ran  upon  his 

52 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

breast,   between  his  open  arms.     Under  their  double 
weight,  as  they  stumbled  backwards,  the  wretched  door 
of  the  pig-shed  swung  open,  and  together  they  rolled 
into  the  litter,  among  the  pigs.     For  a  moment  they 
struggled  there  amidst  grunts  and  squeakings  :  then, 
suddenly,  she  started  up,  leaped  through  the  dim  hght 
of  the  entry,  and  shot  the  outside  bolt.     "  Promise 
not  to  go  near  Hunkum  to-night !  "  she  gasped,  one  hot 
cheek  against  the  door. 
His  answer  was  a  volley  of  oaths. 
"  Promise  me,"   she  pleaded.     "  Promise,  Ferdy  !  " 
"  I'll  promise  to  murder   him  the  moment  I  get  out," 
he   shrieked.     "  And   I'll   black   your   black   eyes   till 
they're  blue  !  " 

"  Promise   me,"    she   pleaded — "  promise,    Ferdy  !  " 
"  Let  me  out  this  instant,  you  hussy,"  was  the  only 
answer  she  received. 

"  I  can't  allow  you  to  hurt  Jan  Hunkum,"  she  re- 
peated desperately,  with  her  hand  on  the  bolt.  She 
ran  away  from  the  door  and  ran  back  to  it,  half  mad 
with  alarm  and  uncertainty.  She  could  hear  him 
hitting  the  lumbersome  swine  in  his  rage,  as  he  shouted 
and  swore.  Furious,  he  called  out  to  her  the  whole 
villany  of  his  lovemaking  :  the  report,  picked  up  in  a 
tavern,  that  Jan  Hunkum  had  made  her  his  heiress,  the 
sudden  alarm  of  the  pretended  robbery,  the  discom- 
fiture of  to-night's  new  will !  She  stood  trembhng  as 
the  wave  swept  down  on  her ;  she  sank  on  her  knees. 
"  Promise  me,"  she  repeated  mechanically.  "  Don't, 
Ferdy,  don't !  I  love  you !  "  She  had  never  learnt 
to  pray,  but  she  cried  out  to  God  to  influence — some- 
how— Fistycuffs.  Not  that  she  believed  He  could  do 
it.     "  Promise    me  !     Promise    me !  "    she   cried ;    her 

53 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

voice  was  hoarse  with  yearning.  Gradually  the  useless 
petition  died  away  :  she  lay  against  the  door  in  the 
drizzle,  with  a  sickness  swelling  at  her  throat.  Pre- 
sently a  human  grunt  arose  among  the  swinish  ones, 
a  grunt  which  steadied  to  a  snore.  Fisty cuffs  had  fallen 
asleep,  his  head  on  a  rough  pink  belly.  She  lay  listen- 
ing, and,  in  the  general  appeasement,  her  own  passion 
sank  to  rest. 

When  she  awoke,  it  was  early  dawn,  grey,  grizzly. 
Her  mother  was  standing  over  her,  abusing  her  violently, 
with  occasional  kicks,  like  commas.  She  started  to 
her  feet. 

"  Slut !  "  said  Mary  Brock,  half  a  dozen  times  in 
quick  succession,  with  evident  enjoyment  of  the  hateful 
word.  "  Bring  down  disgrace  on  your  respectable 
mother  by  the  life  you  lead !  That  I  should  have 
Hved  to  behold  such  a  daughter !  I  was  respect- 
able." 

"  Hush,  hush,  mother ;  I  know  you  was."  Liza 
looked  round  confusedly.  "  I  like  you  for  it.  Well, 
I'm  not.  Well,  I  can't  help  it.  A  good  many  people 
aren't.     In  these  parts  at  any  rate." 

"  At  least  say  it  was  Fistycuffs  ?  "  questioned  Mary 
with  real  interest. 

"  Of  course  it  was  Fistycuffs ! "  exclaimed  Liza, 
aflame.  "  Mother,  what  do  you  take  me  for  ?  He 
came  by  the  window,  near  midnight,  and  I  just  slipped 
out  for  a  talk.  When  he  went  away,  I  leant,  thinking, 
against  the  pig-stye,  and  I  must  have  fallen  asleep." 

"  More  fool  you,"  said  Mary  Brock.  "  Well,  come 
away.  It's  Sunday,  you  stupid  :  you've  got  to  be  half 
an  hour  earHer  to-day." 

54 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Don't  I  know  ?  "  replied  the  girl  peevishly.  She 
crept  away  to  the  house.  Ten  minutes  later  she  looked 
into  the  pig-stye  apprehensively  :  it  was  empty. 

She  earned  her  hving  by  trudging  round,  twice  daily, 
with  her  heavy  basket  of  baker's  bread.  Twice  a  day 
she  had  to  fetch  it,  first  from  Horstwyk,  the  village 
which  lies  three  miles  away.  What  with  crossing  and 
recrossing  the  potato-fields,  in  a  continuous  zig-zag, 
her  daily  perambulations  from  cottage  to  cottage  must 
have  filled  eight  hours  or  more.  She  was  proud,  with 
sullen  pride,  of  working  amongst  a  hundred  loafers, 
and  especially  made  it  a  point  of  honour,  and  of  all- 
absorbing  interest,  to  secure  unwilling  settlements  from 
the  most  insolvent  customers.  For  the  Hemelers,  too 
lazy  to  bake  their  own  supply  of  bread,  were  still  less 
anxious  to  pay  for  it.  The  girl,  hardly  able  to  read 
and  oblivious  of  early  pothooks,  scratched  together 
mysterious  accounts  which  completely  bewildered  the 
baker,  in  all  but  their  final  satisfactory  result. 

On  Sundays  she  had  to  be  half  an  hour  earlier,  so 
that  her  customers  might  eat  their  breakfast  tranquilly 
before  they  went  to  church.  They  always  ate  their 
breakfast  tranquilly.     They  never  went  to  church. 

This  Sunday  morning  she  started  along  the  straight 
long  road,  between  the  straight  tall  poplars,  thinking, 
thinking,  all  the  way  to  Horstwyk,  how  she  could 
possibly  save  Jan  Hunkum  from  her  lover.  She 
shivered  in  the  naked  November  silence  that  lay  pale 
across  the  shivering  earth.  The  dawn  spread  white 
and  thin,  like  an  ancient  virgin  whose  locks  no  longer 
hide  the  baldness  underneath. 

She  was  not  afraid  of  Fistycuffs,  for  she  fancied  that, 
whatever  he  might  do  to  her,  she  should  rather  like  his 

55 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

doing  it.  Supposing  he  killed  her  ?  She  shut  her  eyes, 
along  the  bare  blank  road,  and  tried  to  feel  him  killing 
her.  But  he  mustn't  hurt  Jan  Hunkum.  No,  above 
all,  she  must  warn  Jan  Hunkum. 

Presently  he  would  come  out  to  her,  as  he  always 
did,  for  his  hump  of  rye-bread.  He  got  special  daily 
fractions  nowadays,  his  toothless  gums  having  quite 
refused  to  masticate  the  cheap  stale  bread  he  had 
bought  so  long.  He  would  come  out  and  he  would  say — 
"  Good  morning,  girl,"  and  then  he  would  go  in  again. 
Must  she  catch  him  by  the  tail  of  his  coat  and  cry — 
"  Beware  of  Fistj-cuffs "  ?  No,  never  Fistycuffs. 
"  Jan  Hunkum,  they  don't  believe  you've  been  robbed 
already.  Somebody's  coming  to  rob  you  soon.  They'd 
have  been  here  to-night  but  that  somebody  stopped 
them.     Somebody  ?     Who  ?     Somebody  ? — I  !  " 

She  could  not  say  so  much.     She  could  not  say  enough. 
One  question  would  lead  to  another.     The  police  would 
get  mixed  up  in  the  matter.     She  would  end  by  be- 
traying Fistycuffs. 
Her  heart  stood  still.     She  must  save  Jan  Hunkum. 
She  cared  nothing  for  the  miser.     Rather,  she  dis- 
liked him  for  the  rumour  which  mixed  up  with  his,  in 
shameful  promiscuity,  her  mother's  good  name  and  her 
own.     But  he  had  spoken  civilly  to  her  through  all 
these  years  ;  moreover,  he  had  always  paid.     Few  of 
the  Hemelers  did  either.     Besides,  Jan  Hunkum  had 
rough  words  for  every  one  he  spoke  to,  excepting  her. 
So  she  plodded  on  her  daily  round  till  his  turn  came. 
Then  she  resolutely  walked  towards  the  gravel-plot. 
She  would  trust  to  the  intuition  of  the  moment. 

As  she  neared  the  shiny  little  house,  in  the  rawness 
of  the  grim  November;  morning,  she  watched  to  see  the 

56 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

green  door  open,  and  the  old  man  totter  out.  Nothing 
stirred.  It  was  cold  this  morning — she  never  minded 
weather  ;  but  the  old  man  was  growing  feebler  :  per- 
haps she  might  be  a  trifle  early.  With  a  calm  beginning 
of  surprise  she  knocked. 

She  knocked  again — and  waited.  And  then  before 
that  unaccustomed  irresponsiveness  a  sudden  terror 
flashed  across  her  brain.  Supposing  Fistycuffs — dur- 
ing her  culpable  slumbers — had  got  away  and  done  the 
deed  ! 

She  shrieked  aloud  and,  without  thought  of  the  laden 
basket  on  her  arm,  began  tearing  round  the  cottage. 
In  another  moment  she  halted,  breathless,  ashamed, 
her  basket  empty,  its  contents  scattered  right  and  left. 
Very  contritely,  she  stooped  to  collect  them,  although 
she  knew  by  this  time  that  something  must  indeed 
have  happened  inside  the  silent  house,  for  not  even  her 
crazy  conduct  had  caused  its  single  inhabitant  to  stir. 

She  soon  found  the  little  back  window,  with  the 
black  bars  lying  under  it.  One  was  missing.  Then 
she  knew  that  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  was  face 
to  face  with  crime — with  what  she  would  consider 
crime.  She  stood  away  from  the  walls,  and  the  walls 
stared  back  at  her.  A  fit  of  trembling  seized  her. 
"  It  is  behind  us,"  said  the  walls.  "  It  is  horrible.  No 
wonder  you  feel  afraid." 

She  sank  on  her  knees.  She  was  afraid.  Though 
she  could  hardly  have  said  of  what.  Not  of  meeting 
burglars. 

Presently  she  fancied  she  heard  a  sound  inside  the 
house.  She  looked  up,  listening.  The  air  was  so  still, 
she  held  her  breath.  And  then  she  knew  she  had  heard 
it  again,  low  and  distinct — a  groan ! 

57 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

She  started  to  her  feet.  Two  men  stood  watching 
her,  beside  the  peat-shed,  their  figures  clear  against  the 
morning  Hght.     She  stared  into  their  faces. 

"  Oh,  Ferdy  !  "  she  gasped. 

"  Let's  call  somebody,"  he  answered,  white  as  she. 
"  Let's  go  home."  He  seized  her  by  the  arm.  "  Come 
away  !  " 

"  No  !  "  she  answered,  fiercely  resisting  him.  "  No  ! 
No  !  No  !  "     He  read  the  terror  in  her  eyes. 

"  It's  no  doing  of  mine  !  "  he  cried.  "  I  swear  it 
isn't !  Whatever  it  is,  'tis  no  doing  of  mine  !  How 
could  it  be  when  you  kept  me  locked  up  in  that 
beastly  place  till  daybreak  ?  Here,  Pete,  swear  we've 
got  nothing  to  do  with  it.     God,  there  it  is  again  !  " 

"  Hush,"  said  the  girl,  shuddering.  "  I  don't  care 
for  Pete's  oaths.  Nor  for  anybody's  oaths.  Look 
me  in  the  face,  Fisty,  before  we  go  in,  and  say  it  wasn't 
you  !  " 

"  It  wasn't "    began  Fistycuffs.     "  Confound  it, 

what  do  you  mean  by  '  going  in  '  ?     Hark,  there  it  is 
again  !  " 

"  I'm  going  through  the  window,"  said  the  girl. 

"  No  :  you're  not."  he  cried,  in  a  fury.  "  Nor  are 
we — eh — are  we,  Pete  ?  You've  forget  about  the 
will :  that's  like  you,  Liza  !  From  the  cottages  a  dozen 
eyes  may  be  watching  us  ;  if  you're  seen  to  go  inside, 
you  lose  your  money,  once  for  all." 

Liza  picked  up  her  bread-basket  and  stood  reflect- 
ing. Should  the  miser  die,  she  would  be  rich.  Often 
and  often  her  mother  had  boasted  that  Hunkum's  death 
would  prove  Liza  to  be  his  heiress,  his  nearest  relative, 
his — niece.  She  understood  nothing  about  the  laws  of 
inheritance.     She  fully  believed  in  the  "  niece." 

58 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

In  a  few  hours  then,  possibly,  she  would  be  rich.  Jan 
Hunkum  had  probably  been  plundered,  but  of  course 
the  police  would  recover  the  treasure.  And,  in  any 
case,  as  Barend  Everts  had  remarked  last  night,  rich 
people  might  be  robbed  of  much,  but  they  couldn't 
be  plundered  poor. 

She  would  be  rich.  She  wanted  to  be  rich.  Fisty- 
cuffs  would  marry  her  then  and  be  good  to  her. 

She  dropped  her  basket  and  looked  at  him.  The 
moan  from  the  cottage  seemed  to  pass  between  them. 

"  I'm  going  through  the  window,"  she  said. 

He  sprang  at  her  with  an  oath.  "  Never,"  he  cried, 
"  never  while  I  live.  Here — help  me,  Pete  !  "  Un- 
consciously, if  seemed  to  her,  she  struck  out  at  him, 
straight  from  the  shoulder,  toppling  him  over,  motion- 
less, flat  on  his  back. 

Then  she  dragged  herself  up  through  the  window, 
without  as  much  as  a  glance  at  hang-dog  Pete. 

The  whole  house  was  full  of  smoke  and  burning. 
Disconcerted  at  this,  she  went  back  to  the  pantry,  and 
took  up  a  knife  from  where  it  lay  beside  the  miser's 
untasted  supper  of  bread  and  fat.  She  noticed  that 
the  few  objects  on  the  shelves  were  clean  and  tidily 
arranged.  For,  in  contrast  with  the  horde  of  his 
relations,  Jan  Hunkum  was  neat. 

She  walked  quickly  into  the  bedroom,  her  knife  in  her 
hand. 

The  bedroom  was  dimly  dark,  full  of  fumes  and 
smell.  And  Jan  Hunkum  lay  stretched  across  the  floor. 
So  much  she  saw  in  entering.  She  shuddered  back  to  the 
door,  for  fear  of  a  possible  assassin  concealed  in  the 
darkness,  watching.  The  next  moment  she  flung 
herself  boldly  across  to  a  window,  drew  a  bolt,  raised 

59 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

a  bar,  turned  back  a  shutter  :  a  chink  of  grey  light  fell 
thin  across  the  floor. 

All  the  time  she  faced  round  to  that  heap  in  the 
middle,  to  the  centre  of  all  her  considerations,  the 
moan.  Jan  Hunkum  lay  amongst  the  disorder  of  wraps 
and  bedclothes,  with  his  treasures  scattered  about  him. 
She  had  never  seen  gold  before.  For  a  moment  the 
sight  caught  her  breath.  Jan  Hunkum's  fortune,  then, 
had  neither  been  invented  nor  carried  off.  Gold ! 
Here  was  the  one  thing  all  men  lived  for.  Jan  Hunkum 
was  d}dng  for  it. 

She  knelt  beside  the  old  man,  resolutely,  and  per- 
ceived with  surprise  that  his  fingers  clutched,  in  an 
attitude  of  attack,  the  missing  iron  bar.  She  loosened 
them  with  difficulty  and  pushed  the  bar  aside. 

Jan  Hunkum's  eyes  were  closed ;  he  was  probably 
but  semi-conscious.  As  she  tried  to  lift  him  up,  he 
shrieked,  and  she  saw  that  his  naked  arms  and  breast 
were  terribly  burnt.  She  propped  up  his  head,  and 
went  for  some  water,  dazed,  wondering  if  water  was 
good  for  burns. 

She  could  do  nothing.  Whenever  she  touched  him, 
he  screamed.  "  Alone !  "  hs  murmured  several  times. 
His  eyes  remained  closed. 

She  sat  down  on  the  floor  beside  him,  helpless,  and 
her  eyes  mechanically  wandered  across  a  crumpled 
scrap  of  paper  that  lay  open  in  the  twilight.  She 
thought  it  was  money,  like  all  the  rest. 

I  hereby  certify  that  Liza  Brock  is  my  daughter. 

Jan  Hunkum. 

She  read  it  over  and  over  again,  dully  wondering 
what  it  meant,  while  yet  she  had  instantly  realized 

60 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

every  word.  She  got  upon  her  feet  again,  and  stared 
down  at  her  father. 

She  hated  him  with  a  hate  that  suddenly  filled  her 
whole  soul  like  a  furnace.  She  clenched  her  fists  tight, 
lest  she  should  strike  at  the  upturned  face.  She  would 
have  rejoiced  to  fall  upon  him  and  tear  out  his  wicked 
grey  hair  and  beard  ;  she  would  gladly  have  stamped 
on  his  prostrate  body.  The  fury  of  her  denial  swept 
across  her  like  a  storm.  She  bent  both  hot  cheeks  down 
to  his. 

"  Can't  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  "  she  said  softly. 
"  Not  anything  at  all  ?  " 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  he  opened  his  eyes,  and 
recognized  her.  He  saw  the  paper  she  clutched  in  one 
hand — Barend  Everts'  "  document."  Their  glances 
met. 

He  struggled  to  say  something,  between  his  groans. 
It  was  a  piteous  something,  by  the  piteous  expression 
of  his  disfigured  features ;  he  struggled,  for  a  moment, 
with  the  vehemence  of  despair.  Then,  suddenly,  she 
saw  the  eyeballs  roll  up  as  the  head  fell  back,  and  the 
whole  body  collapsed.  She  had  never  seen  death  be- 
fore.   Horror-struck,  she  knew  it  at  once. 

She  stood  motionless.  Presently  she  burst  into  a 
torrent  of  indignant  outcries.  "  It's  a  lie  !  It's  a  lie  !  " 
she  repeated  again  and  again,  in  the  presence  of  the 
dead  man,  as  if  to  shame  him.  She  tore  the  palms  of 
her  hands  with  her  teeth.  "  It's  a  lie  !  It's  a  cowardly, 
devilish  lie !  "  But  the  conviction  had  gone  from  her 
voice. 

"Well! "  she  said  aloud,  with  desperate  resolve,  "  if 
I'm — his  daughter,  I  can  marry  Fistycuffs.  All  this 
money's  mine,  I  suppose."     Her  voice  dropped.     "  I 

6i 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

wonder  what's  the  worth  of  a  bundle  such  as  this  ? 
I'm  the  richest  woman  in  the  neighbourhood."  She 
pushed  aside  some  of  the  confusion  around  her,  drawing 
the  bed-clothes  over  the  body  in  decent  covering.  And 
out  of  the  tangle  she  disengaged  the  remnants  of  a 
broken  petrolemn  lamp  and  also  a  half-soaked  pea- 
jacket. 

She  snatched  at  the  latter  with  a  cry.  It  wasn't 
Ferdinand's,  thank  God  !  Yet  she  fancied  she  had  seen 
it  before.     It  belonged  to  Barend  Everts. 

Barend  !  The  whole  thing  flashed  upon  her.  Barend 
had  come  here  and  done  this  deed,  because  she  had  told 
him  how  much  she  wanted  money.  For  her  sake  he  had 
killed  Jan  Hunkum,  httle  dreaming  that  she  was  indeed 
Jan  Hunkum's  child.  Perhaps  the  old  man  had  pro- 
duced the  paper  ?  Perhaps — more  probably — Barend 
had  never  heard  of  it.  However  that  might  be,  it  was 
her  ignoble  greed  that  had  killed  her  father  for  his  gold. 

"  Not  I,"  she  murmured  miserably,  hiding  her  face 
in  the  sodden  pea-jacket.  "  Ferdinand,  Ferdinand," 
— and  she  found  herself  pitying  Barend,  the  murderer. 

Somebody  stood  watching  her  ;  his  eyes  drew  up  hers 
to  his  face.  She  sprang  away  from  him.  "  You  did 
it,  Barend  !  "  she  cried.     "  You  !     You  !     Murderer  !  " 

He  did  not  answer,  staring  stupidly.  Through  the 
gloomy  half-light  she  could  see  something  of  the  con- 
dition he  was  in.  His  clothes  and  hands  were  caked 
with  clay  ;  his  head  was  bare. 

"  You've  killed  him,"  she  continued,  "  a  poor  help- 
less old  man.  All  the  world  shall  know  how  brutally 
you  killed  him.     I  shall  tell.     They  will  punish  you — 

dreadfully.     And  I — I "     She  stopped.     Would  she 

be  glad  ? 

62 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  And  you  will  marry  Fistycuffs,"  he  said  drearily. 
He  stepped  forward  to  take  up  the  jacket. 

"  No,"  she  said.     "  That  is  part  of  my  evidence." 

He  turned  on  her,  gently  withal.  "  You  won't  need 
evidence,"  he  said,  "  I'm  my  own  evidence.  I'm 
going  to  give  myself  up." 

For  a  moment  she  stood  silent.  Then  she  burst  out — 
"  Don't  do  that !  For  God's  sake,  don't  do  that ! 
Don't  you  know  that  the  people  who  give  themselves 
up  are  always  condemned  ?  " 

"  I  know,"  he  answered.  "  When  Government  gets 
hold  of  you,  it  doesn't  let  you  go.  Especially  if  you're 
innocent,"  he  added  bitterly, 

"  But  you're  not  innocent !  "  she  cried  quickly.  "  Oh, 
I  can't  bear  the  thought  of  it.     Go  !  " 

Again  he  looked  at  her.  "  You  really  feel  quite  sure 
I  killed  your  father  ?  "  he  said.  The  new  word  caused 
her  to  wince.  "  Well,  perhaps  I  did,"  he  added.  "  It 
don't  really  matter  much.  I  shall  give  myself  up  to 
the  constables,  and  you  can  marry  Fistycuffs." 

She  came  after  him.  "  I  can't  help  it.  I  don't 
understand  at  all.  I  love  Fistycuffs.  I  always  knew 
you  were  the  better  man.  And  now  you've  killed  my 
father.  He  was  my  father,  Barend.  I'm  not  even  a 
respectable  girl.  I  hate  him,  though  he's  dead.  Per- 
haps that's  why  I  can't  be  as  angry  with  you  as  I  ought 
to  be.  I  know  'tis  very  wicked.  But  Fistycuffs  is 
going  to  marry  me.     He  must.     Barend  !  " 

"  Yes."     He  stopped  in  the  pantry  door. 

"  Barend,  you  can't  leave  the  house.     He's  outside." 

"  If  so,  he  saw  me  climb  through  the  little  window.  I 
had  to  come  back  and  see  after  the  old  man.  I  couldn't 
help  myself.     But  I'm  not  afraid  of  Fistycuffs." 

63 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Barend,  say  you  didn't  do  it  because  of  anything 
I  said  !  " 

"  Didn't  do  what  ?  Oh,  yes,  all  right.  I  didn't  do 
it  because  of  anything  you  said." 

"  Barend — hsten  !  Listen  !  Don't  give  yourself 
up  !  " 

He  did  not  answer ;  already  he  was  climbing  to  the 
window. 

"  For  my  sake  !  "  she  pleaded  wildly.  "  Don't  say 
anything  !     Wait  and  see  !  " 

"  For  your  sake  ?  "  He  smiled  drearily.  "  Very 
well.  I  don't  understand  what's  really  happened. 
Not  a  bit.  But,  then,  I'm  a  fool.  For  your  sake  ? 
Very  well.     Good-bye." 

She  was  once  more  alone  in  the  house  with  the  dead 
man.  She  forced  herself  to  go  back  for  one  last  look 
at  him,  her  father.  The  pea-jacket  lay  on  the  floor, 
forgotten.  She  took  it  up  and,  fastening  it  round  her 
waist  as  best  she  could,  clumsily  hid  it  away.  She 
crept  out  of  the  house,  crying.  She  had  not  been  in  it 
more  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

She  took  up  her  bread-basket,  looking  around  her. 
At  first  there  was  no  sign  of  Fistycuf^s.  Daylight  had 
come.  To  which  of  the  distant  cottages  should  she  bear 
the  news  ? 

Fistycuf^s  stole  from  behind  the  kitchen  wall.  "  It's 
stopped,"  he  whispered.  "  Well  ?  "  Then  he  added 
immediately  :  "  Come  away  off  the  gravel,  you  fool. 
Come  behind  the  house." 

"  There's  no  danger,"  she  answered,  slowly  following. 
"  On  Sundays  none  of  'em  wakes  till  I  calls  'em.  There's 
only  Jan  Hunkum  I  have  to  go  to  first,  this  side."  She 
shuddered. 

64 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  And  you  won't  wake  him,"  said  Fistycuffs.  "  Liza, 
you  might  just  as  well  have  done  it  with  me.  I  didn't 
mean  murder.  Is  the  money  there,  I  say  ?  How 
much  of  it  did  you  bring  away  with  you  ?  Hang  it, 
you  jade,  what  were  you  doing  in  therewith  Everts  ?  " 

"  Did  you  see  him  ?  "  she  cried  in  alarm. 

"  Blood  and  thunder,  what  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  cried. 
"  See  him  ?  I'll  tear  your  heart  out !  One  of  his 
friends  knows  who  the  murderer  is !  All  the  worse  for 
the  murderer !  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  she  said,  outwardly  calm. 
''  When  Barend  came,  Hunkum  was  dead.  I'm  going 
over  yonder  to  give  the  alarm." 

"  To  give  the  alarm  that  you  found  the  house 
closed  !  "  he  cried  with  ill-checked  excitement.  "  Have 
you  again  forgotten,  fool,  that  it's  ruin  to  have  been 
inside  ?  " 

"  No,  I  haven't,"  she  made  answer.  A  dogged 
something  in  her  voice  and  expression  disconcerted 
him. 

"  Don't  expect  me  to  marry  you,"  he  said  brutally, 
"  unless  you  get  your  share."^ 

"  Ferdy  !  " — suddenly  she  flung  herself  at  his  feet 
— "  you  won't  marry  me  anyhow,  Ferdy." 

"  I  can  see  !  " — he  grinned  ;  "  that's  why  there's  such 
a  hurry  about  this  marriage."  His  vbice' changed. 
"  Curse  it !    Everts  ?  "  he  said.       ■  ■   '  '•"''"^'  '^'' 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "  YouaLteiiiad',*'  she  said,  not 
less  fiercely.  "  I  mean  that  my  mother — that  I  am 
Jan  Hunkum's  daughter.  I  can't  help  it.  I'm  so 
sorry.  Oh,  Ferdy — I  couldn't  but  tell  you— say  you 
will!" 

"  I'll  marry  you  fast  enough,''  he  answered,  "  if  you 
5  65 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

make  it  worth  my  while.  So  you  are  Jan  Hunkum's 
daughter,  you  clever  hussy.  You  own  to  it  now  that 
the  right  time's  come.  I  don't  know  much  about 
law,  but  a  daughter  of  any  kind  must  come  off  best 
on  such  occasions.  Perhaps  you'll  have  half !  And 
now,  Liza,  mum's  the  word  :  you've  not  been  inside  the 
house.  And  we'll  set  the  police  to  catch  that  murderous 
bully  !  You  run  across  to  the  Kippels  yonder,  and  I 
make  myself  scarce.     Good-bye." 

"But,  Ferdy " 

He  came  back  to  her.  "  If  the  money's  there," 
he  said,  "  and  the  old  man's  really  dead,  why  shouldn't 
we  go  in  and  take  some  now  ?  " 

She  eyed  him  narrowly.  "I'm  yearning  to  marry 
you,  Ferdy,"  she  answered.  "  I'd  do  anything  for  it. 
But  I  won't — no,  I  won't — steal." 

"  What  a  fuss  you  make,"  he  said.  "  Well,  it's 
easier  to  get  it  regular." 


VI 

An  hour  later  the  Hemel  was  ringing  with  the  news. 
Against  yesterday's  disappointment  stood  out  lurid 
the  reaHty  of  to-day.  Jan  Hunkum  was  really  mur- 
dered. He  would  not  come  back  to  say  he  was  not. 
The  constable  from  Horstwyk,  forcing  the  door  against 
which  the  bread-girl  had  vainly  beaten,  had  found  the 
miser  prostrate  among  his  treasures,  killed  by  a  blow 
from  a  bar  which  still  lay  by  his  side.  It  appeared 
that  the  lamp  had  been  overturned  in  the  struggle. 
Panic-stricken,  probably,  the  murderer  had  fled,  leaving 

66 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

most  of  the  booty  behind  him.     The  money  was  there. 

The  money  was  there.  Horrible  details  of  the 
tragedy  leaked  out.  The  money  was  there.  In  each 
family  circle  the  Hemelers  softly  computed  impossible 
legacies,  but  the  incidents  of  the  crime  were  the  public 
delight  of  the  hour. 

In  the  course  of  that  Sunday  afternoon  Barend 
Everts  was  arrested  at  the  house  where  he  lodged. 
There  was  absolutely  no  evidence  against  him,  no 
ground  for  suspicion,  except  that  Jaap  Avis  had  seen 
him  creep  home  in  the  early  morning,  without  a  coat 
on,  and  covered  with  dirt.  But  the  police  locked  him 
up.  Monday's  newspapers  all  called  him  "  the  mur- 
derer," and  the  public  conscience  was  appeased.  Con- 
fronted with  the  examining  magistrate,  he  refused  to 
answer  any  questions.  "  I  am  a  fool,"  he  said.  "  Every- 
one knows  I  am  a  fool.  Whatever  I  replied  would  be 
sure  to  do  me  harm."  He  remained  obstinately  silent. 
The  authorities,  accustomed  to  extorting  confessions, 
were  nonplussed. 

While  the  slow  investigation,  with  its  futile  interro- 
gatories and  blind  quest  of  the  missing  jacket,  dragged 
wearily  nowhere,  the  body  of  Jan  Hunkum  was  laid 
solemnly  to  rest,  amid  the  hysteric  lamentations  of  the 
Hemel.  And  immediately  afterwards  the  contents  of 
the  will  became  known.  Liza  Brock  was  sole  heiress. 
In  her  default  the  money  would  go  to  the  cousins,  pro- 
portionately, as  the  barber  had  told  them — to  the  whole 
of  the  hamlet,  in  fact.  The  proviso  about  never  having 
entered  the  cottage  was  written  down  also,  and,  whether 
expressly  or  through  some  inadvertence,  it  included 
Liza  among  the  rest.  Perhaps  the  recollection  of  this 
had    tortured    Hunkum's    dying    moments  ?    No    one 

67 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

will  ever  know.  The  conditions  of  the  document  must 
have  been  fresh  in  his  mind.  It  had  been  drawn  up  a 
few  hours  before  his  death. 

The  whole  hamlet  sank  away  from  Liza  in  one  groan 
of  admiration  and  scorn.  She  was  an  heiress  indeed, 
and  heiress  of  gold  and  of  shame,  said  the  Hemelers. 
From  the  miser's  careful  account-books  it  was  proved 
that  nearly  one-half  of  his  fortune  had  perished  in  the 
flames ;  some  forty  thousand  guilders  remained.  The 
children,  playing  in  the  streets,  stopped  to  call  out, 
"  Liza  Hunkum  !  "  their  grinning  elders  casually  re- 
minded the  girl  how  each  successive  speaker  had  "  al- 
ways stood  her  (solitary)  friend."  The  morose  pointed 
out  that  the  money  was  still  in  the  hands  of  the  lawyers. 
"  I  wish  it  would  remain  there  !  "  the  heiress  had  fool- 
ishly exclaimed.  A  shower  of  opprobrious  epithets  fell 
behind  her  stiffening  back. 

As  for  Liza  herself,  she  would  gladly  have  hidden 
all  day  in  her  garret.  She  hated  Jan  Hunkum  for  the 
shame  he  had  brought  upon  her.  She  despised,  with 
a  dogged  affection,  the  mother  who  had  sought,  and  now 
shared,  her  disgrace.  The  thought  of  the  money  was 
abhorrent  to  her  :  she  scorned  herself  for  desiring  it 
still.  The  wretched  jacket,  that  every  one  was  writing 
and  talking  about,  she  had  buried  near  the  pig-stye. 
Sometimes  she  hoped  they  would  find  it.  But  nobody 
dreamed  of  her  as  a  possible  accessory.  She  had 
knocked  at  the  murdered  man's  door,  and,  receiving  no 
answer,  had  run  to  a  neighbour's  and  given  the  alarm. 

Fistycuffs  was  formally  engaged  to  the  heiress.  They 
were  to  be  married  as  soon  as  this  business  was  settled. 
"  Not  a  moment  too  soon,"  said  the  gossips.  But  that, 
in  a  place  like  the  Hemel,  was  captiousness.    It  was 

68 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

envy  and  malice  and  much  uncharitableness.  For 
nobody,  in  the  Hemel,  married  "  too  soon." 

Fistycuffs  showed  himself  frankly  happy  and  good- 
natured.  Everybody  said  he  was  not  half  a  bad  fellow. 
So  they  treated  him — for  he  treated  them — well. 

"  I  shan't  say  a  word  about  having  seen  Everts,"  he 
confided  to  Liza.  "  People  might  ask  of  us  what  we 
were  doing  there,  don't  you  see  ?  Best  keep  away  from 
the  police  if  you  can.  Besides,  'pon  my  honour,  I 
wouldn't  do  any  man  a  useless  bad  turn.  Not  even 
Everts.     I'm  not  such  a  cad  as  to  help  the  police." 

The  matter  was  indeed  a  point  of  honour  with  the 
speaker,  perhaps  the  only  point  of  honour  he  had.  A 
point  which  would  vanish  as  soon  as  convenient. 

Liza  had  now  one  supreme  preoccupation,  and  that 
was  to  get  married  "  in  time."  But  herein  she  un- 
expectedly found  herself  hindered  by  her  mother. 
Mary  Brock  had  wept  stormy  tears  over  her  daughter's 
unspoken  reproaches,  over  Jan  Hunkum's  horrible  end, 
over  Barend's  misfortune.  She  loudly  proclaimed  her 
belief  in  the  latter's  innocence.  He  was  too  good,  she 
declared,  for  the  likes  of  her  daughter,  just  as  he  had  been 
too  good  for  herself.  And  she  stood  up,  facing  Fistycuffs 
and  Liza. 

"  As  long  as  it's  not  settled  what  happens  to  Barend," 
she  said,  "  there'll  be  no  marryings  nor  merry-makings 
here  !  "  And  she  brought  down  her  fist  with  a  sympa- 
thetic crash  on  the  tottery  table  in  front  of  her. 

"  You  be  bio  wed  !  "  said  Fistycuffs,  and  pulled  at  his 
pipe.  "  Barend  Everts  is  safe  enough.  The  police 
haven't  got  any  evidence.      They'll  have  to  let   him 

go." 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  "  asked  Liza,  looking  up  quickly 

69 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

from  a  tiny  something  she  was  clumsily  endeavouring 
to  sew. 

"  Sure.  They  can't  convict  a  man  of  murder  for 
coming  home  without  his  coat.  I  don't  understand 
about  that  business.  If  they  had  found  the  coat — as 
they  should  have  done — at  Jan  Hunkum's — whew  !  " 
He  ended  in  an  expressive  whistle.  Liza  bent  over 
her  needlework. 

"  But  why  don't  he  speak  ?  "  Fistycuffs  resumed. 
"  Where  is  the  coat  ?  That's  what  all  the  papers  are 
asking,  and  he  as  mute  as  that  table  that  Mary's  gone 
and  cracked." 

"  It  ain't  your  table,"  retorted  Mary  fiercely.  Never- 
theless she  looked  with  some  interest  for  corroboration 
of  the  charge.  "  Barend's  as  innocent,"  she  added, 
"  as  innocent  as — me."  She  turned  on  her  daughter. 
"  WTiat  d'ye  mean  ?  "  she  cried,  in  a  fury. 

"  I  ?  Nothing,"  replied  Liza  with  genuine  amaze- 
ment.    "  I  said  nothing." 

"  Ah,  but  you  meant  the  more,  you  limb.  Barend's 
as  innocent  of  murder  as  an  unborn  baby.  If  he  won't 
speak,  it's  because  there's  some  woman  in  the  business. 
He  never  was  near  Hunkum's  cottage,  you  bet !  He's 
shielding  some  woman." 

The  three  looked  at  each  other,  uneasy,  each  with  half 
a  secret  to  hide. 

"  I  know  Barend,"  concluded  Mary,  shaking  her  head. 
"  He's  as  much  of  a  gentleman  as  the  Baron." 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Liza. 

"  Believe  what  yer  like.  Yer  don't  believe  in  yer  own 
mother.  D'yer  think  'cause  he  wouldn't  have  yon,  that 
he  wouldn't  have  nobody  ?  " 

"  Oh,  shut  up,  the  pair  of  you  !  "  shouted  Fistycuffs, 
70 


JAN    HUNKUM'S   MONEY 

kicking  out  his  legs  under  the  table.  "  He's  done  it, 
sure  enough,  and  mighty  cunning  too  !  First  he  smashes 
the  poor  old  fellow's  head  with  the  bar  he  brought  in  for 
the  purpose,  then  he  upsets  the  petroleum  lamp,  so 
people  should  think  it  was  an  accident.  In  course  he 
hoped  the  whole  cottage  'd  burn  !  And  he  made  off 
with  all  he  could  grab  in  his  hurry.  I  don't  doubt  we 
shall  get  back  what  he  stole,  but  what  he  burnt's  burnt, 
and  I  wish  he  was " 

"  Yes,  yes,  we've  heard  all  that  before,"  interrupted 
Liza,  nervously  striking  her  foot  on  the  floor. 

"  You  hold  your  jaw  and  let  me  speak  !  Don't  you 
see,  Mary  ?  All  the  papers  are  saying  the  same.  'Tis 
as  clear  as  ditch-water.  But  none  of  it  can  be  brought 
home  to  him,  and  they'll  have  to  let  him  off." 

"  And  he'll  dance  at  your  wedding,"  said  Mary  Brock. 

"What?  The  man  that  murdered  Liza's  father? 
For  shame  on  you  !  Besides,  we  shall  be  married  long 
before  they  let  him  out." 

"  Not  till  he's  out  o'  prison.  You  won't  be  married 
till  he's  out  o'  prison,"  said  Mary  Brock. 

"  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Fistycuffs, 
sitting  up  and  curiously  eyeing  his  prospective  mother- 
in-law. 

"What  I  say.  I  always  do.  You  don't.  Liza's 
under  age,  and  I'm  her  mother.  And  I  know  what's 
respectable,  though  Liza  thinks  I  doesn't.  There'll 
be  no  feastings  in  this  family,  Ferdinand,  till  the  murder 
business  is  over,  say  I ! " 

"  Say  it  again,  and  I'll  black  your  eyes  for  you !  " 

"Till  this  murder  business  is  over "     Liza  started 

to  her  feet. 

• '  Go  now,  Ferdinand  ;  it's  late,"  she  said. 

71 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Very  well,"  answered  Fistycuffs  sullenly.  "  But. 
mind  yer,  we  marry  next  month  cr  not  at  all  I  "  he 
blustered  out.  The  two  women  stood  watchmg  each 
other. 

"  Mother,  he  is  right,"  said  Liza  softly.  "  We  must 
marry  next  month." 

Mary  Brock  sat  down  on  the  shaky  table.  "  The 
law's  on  my  side,"  she  said,  folding  her  arms. 

"  But  unless  they  get  more  evidence,  the  case  may 
drag  on  for  months.  Don't  you  want  us,  mother,  to 
be  married  at  all  ?  " 

"  Ah,  my  lady,  you're  mighty  soft-spoken  to  your 
disreputable  mother — all  of  a  sudden  !  You  won't  be 
married  till  this  murder  business  is  over  I  Fool,  'twill 
always  be  soon  enough  to  find  yourself  chained  to 
Fistycuffs  !  " 

Liza  Brock  gazed  at  her  mother's  set  jaws  and  hot 
eyes.  Formalities  are  numerous  in  Holland  :  clandes- 
tine marriages  impossible. 

"  You  can't  be  married  without  1  give  you  leave," 
cried  Mary  overbearingly.     "  You  can't !     You  can't !  " 

"  I  know,"  replied  Liza.  Her  voice  was  so  gentle, 
Mary  stared  in  astonishment. 

"  I'm  your  mother,"  continued  Mary,  nettled.  "  You 
can't  help  that." 

Liza  Brock  stepped  back.  "  No,  I  can't,"  she 
said.     "  Nor  could  you  !     Nor  could  you  !  " 

She  lashed  the  other  woman's  coarse  soul  with  the 
laugh  in  her  scornful  tones,  but  the  next  moment  her 
face  was  grown  sad  again.  "  Perhaps  I  care  about 
things  you  don't  care  about.  Mother,  I  want  to  be 
married — soon  !  I  want  to  be  !  "  There  were  tears 
in  her  rough  voice.      She  threw    forward   her   supple 

72 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

young  body  in  the  fervour  of  her  appeal.     "  I  want  to 
be  !     I  want  to  be  !  " 

"  Oh  yes,  you're  a  fine  lady,"  said  Mary,  scratching 
her  head.  "  And  what's  fine  enough  for  your  mother 
ain't  half  fine  enough  for  you  !  I  know.  Your  ideas 
of  decency  aren't  mine,  you  say.  They  aren't.  There 
was  no  need  for  hurry  when  I  married — no  need  at  all, 
and  if  I  hadn't  been  left  a  poor  lone  widow,  waiting  for 
bread — but  there,  'tis  no  use  talking.  There'll  be  no 
marrying  here,  and  no  giving  in  marriage,  till  this  trial's 
over.     I  won't  hear  another  word." 

Liza  quietly  left  the  house,  not  even  troubling  to  close 
the  door.     Mary  called  after  her,  hot  words  of  abuse. 

Although  it  was  already  past  eleven,  the  girl  walked 
straight  to  Joop  Sloop's  and  knocked  loudly. 

"  Walk  in,  mum,"  said  Julia,  with  a  mock  curtsey, 
on  the  threshold.  "  The  door  didn't  happen  to  be 
locked,  mum.  I  didn't  know  in  these  parts  as  they  ever 
was !  " 

"  I  didn't  want  to  take  you  unawares,"  answered  Liza. 
"  Where's  Fistycuffs  ?  " 

"  Him  !  "  said  JuUa,  and  dropped  a  rapid  glance  down 
her  visitor.  "  Don't  do  unto  others — I  see  !  Mr.  Fisty- 
cuffs, madam,  is  here." 

"  So  I  thought,"  replied  Liza.  Then  she  flushed  with 
self- annoyance.  "  I  mean,"  she  added  clumsily,  "  he 
said  he'd  look  in  here." 

"  Just  so,"  remarked  Julia. 

"  There's  only  two  things  I  believe  he  really  cares 
about.     One's  me  and  t'other's  drink." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  replied  Julia,  smiling.  "  Now,  I  never 
give  him  drink,  so  he  has  to  come  to  me  for  myself  alone. 
You  might  try  ?  " 

73 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Liza  clenched  her  fists.  "  Where's  Fistycuffs  ?  "  she 
said,  as  if  till  now  they  had  been  talking  of  some  one  else. 
"  I  want  to  speak  to  him,  not  to  you.  Tell  him  to  come 
to  me  instantly.     Outside." 

"  Undoubtedly  outside,"  retorted  Julia.  She  went 
£md  fetched  the  bully  out  of  the  inner  room.  "  You 
needn't  hide,"  she  said.  "  She  knows  you're  here. 
Trust  any  woman  to  know.  I  knew  when  she  was  after 
Barend." 

"  That's  a  d d  lie,"  cried  Fistycuffs.     "  Barend 

was  after  her,  and  you  know  it !  " 

"  Swear  at  your  wife,  you  brute  !  "  replied  Julia, 
thrusting  him  forward.  "  Do  you  think  that  I'd  ever 
have  looked  at  you,  if  it  hadn't  been  to  pay  her  out  ?  " 

"  Don't,  Julia.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute.  When  I'm 
married,  we  needn't  hide."  He  went  out  sullenly  to 
Liza  in  the  dark.  "  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?  "  he 
said.  Then  he  tried  humour.  "  Haven't  you  had 
enough  of  me  all  this  while  ?  Didn't  you  tell  me  your- 
self to  get  out  ?  " 

"  I  meant  you  to  go  home,"  said  Liza. 

"  So  I  shall  when  I've  had  my  drink.  I  want  it  after 
talking  myself  hoarse  over  Barend.  And,  look  here, 
I  won't  stand  no  nonsense " 

"  Don't,  Ferdy.  Mother  says  she  won't  let  us  marry 
until  the  trial's  over.  I  know  mother.  Nothing'll 
move  her.  Ferdy,  we  can't  wait !  "  Her  voice  rang 
out  in  despair. 

"  Hold  hard,  can't  ye  ?  D'ye  want  Joop  Sloop  to 
hear  ?  D'ye  mean  to  say,  Liza,  that  it's  a  really,  truly, 
settled  fact  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  Mary  calls  Barend  a  fool !  "  exclaimed  Fisty- 

74 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

cuffs  with  huge  contempt.  "  Why,  a  case  Hke  this — 
all  suspicion  and  little  evidence — drags  on  for  months 
and  months.  All  right.  You  go  home  and  leave  me 
to  settle  this  little  matter.  I  know  how  to  manage  it. 
You'll  be  married  next  month.  Good-night."  He 
turned,  looked  to  right  and  left — all  the  yearning  and 
hope  of  her  heart  swelled  on  high — and  then  he  went 
back  into  the  house. 

"  Why,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  if  we  waited  until  she'd 
lost  her  chief  reason  for  marrying  me — hang  it  if  I  don't 
think  she  wouldn't  have  me  at  all !  " 

Next  morning  he  solicited  an  interview  of  the  examin- 
ing magistrate  and  remained  closeted  with  that  impor- 
tant functionary  for  some  considerable  time. 


VII 

For  three  months  after  the  "  murder  "  the  newspapers 
consistently  abused  the  police.  They  abused  them  for 
not  having  discovered  anything,  and  also  for  not  having 
communicated  their  discoveries  to  the  Press.  They 
abused  them  for  not  following  up  the  clues  vouchsafed 
by  intelligent  reporters,  and  still  more  for  following  them 
up  when  these  clues  came  to  nothing.  The  public  agreed 
with  the  newspapers,  and  so  did  the  police  themselves. 

In  the  midst  of  this  customary  muddle — and  of  the 
month  of  February — an  announcement  was  sent  round 
by  the  authorities  that  the  case  had  been  sent  up  for 
trial.  The  Public  Prosecutor  was  in  possession  of  all 
the  necessary  evidence  ;  the  accused  would  undoubtedly 
be  condemned. 

Whereupon    the    newspapers,    which    had    recently 

75 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

commenced  pitying  "  the  person  still  under  arrest," 
immediately  returned  to  attacks  on  "  the  murderer." 
And  readers  all  over  the  country  dropped  their  interest 
in  this  unravelled  detective  story,  and,  calmly  awaiting 
the  day  of  the  trial,  turned  to  the  fourteen  "  mysteries  " 
still  on  their  list. 

Not  so  at  the  Hemel,  however,  where  the  excitement 
flared  up  and  burned  brighter  than  ever.  Speculation — 
the  only  flame  whose  increase  needs  no  fuel — filled  the 
air.  But  it  illumined  emptiness.  One  woman,  in  the 
silence  of  her  garret,  of  her  trudges  on  the  high  road, 
kept  asking  :  Had  Barend  confessed  ? 

And  for  the  hundredth  time  that  woman  turned  upon 
herself.  Why  should  Barend,  the  big,  blue-eyed  fool, 
who  never  needed  money,  why  should  Barend,  of  all  the 
Hemelers,  have  sought  to  murder  Hunkum  ?  Only  one 
explanation  seemed  possible  :  recollecting  their  conver- 
sation on  the  night  of  the  catastrophe,  she  made  a  close 
guess  at  the  facts.  "  It  was  I  that  sent  him,"  she 
whispered,  in  the  loneliness  of  the  garret,  of  the  high 
road.  "  He  knew  about  the  paper.  He  knew  I  wanted 
money.  He  wanted  the  money  for  me."  She  would 
have  been  far  more  wroth  with  her  father's  murderer  had 
she  not  often  accused  herself  of  the  crime. 

Why,  if  he  wanted  the  money,  had  he  not  taken  it  ? 
The  Hemel  declared  that  he  had.  It  felt  confident  that 
he  had  hidden  underground  the  greater  part  of  the  miser's 
untold  millions,  cunningly  leaving  the  "  trifle  "  inherited 
by  Liza.  It  was  unanimous  in  declaring  that  the 
torture  ought  to  be  applied,  to  make  him  confess  where 
the  treasure  lay  hidden.  And  it  also  said  that  Liza  had 
got  more  than  she  deserved,  and  that  the  Government 
ill-treated  the  prisoner. 

76 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Meanwhile,  the  accused  was  removed  to  the  chief  town 
of  his  province,  where  the  High  Court  of  Justice  would 
try  his  case.  The  day  before  the  proceedings  began, 
the  penniless  Hemel  diligently  counted  up  its  pennies. 
It  found  it  had  not  money  enough  for  a  trip  to  the  city, 
but  it  bravely  resolved  to  go  all  the  same.  It  never  has 
money  for  anything,  and  only  spends  what  it  hasn't  got 
on  pleasure — for  what  else,  it  says  truly,  is  money  for  ? 
Loud  envy  ran  riot  around  "  the  heiress,"  whose  expenses 
were  paid  as  a  witness.  "  Filthy  lucre,"  said  Joop 
Sloop,  "  always  falls  in  heaps." 

"  Are  you  going,  Ferdy  ?  "  asked  Liza  suddenly.  For 
days  she  had  delayed  the  question.  It  was  now  the 
night  before  the  trial. 

Fistycuffs  grinned.  "  I  wouldn't  miss  the  winding- 
up,"  he  answered  ;  "  no,  not  for  anything." 

"  Then  you  can  go  with  me,"  said  Mary  Brock,  "  Liza 
being  a  witness." 

He  objected,  stammering  clumsily.  "  I  can't  have 
any  one  bothering.     I'm  going  alone,"  he  said. 

"  With  Julia,"  remarked  Liza  imperturbably,  turning 
her  face  to  the  mother.     "  Don't,  mother  ;  let  him  go." 

"  'Tis  a  lie  !  "  shouted  Fistycuffs  ;  "  a  regular  Liza-lie  ! 
You've  got  such  an  infernal  temper,  Liza,  hang  me  if 
I  don't  think  I'm  a  fool  for  wanting  to  marry  you  at  all !  " 

"  Oh,  you'll  marry  me,"  sneered  Liza  sadly  ;  "  I  shall 
always  be  worth  your  while." 

He  started  up  and  came  at  her.  Mary  Brock  flung 
an  oath  between  them.  "  Don't,  Ferdy,"  said  the  girl. 
"  Don't  worry  me,  then.  I  don't  mind  who  you  go 
with.  I  wish  the  whole  horrible  business  was  done." 
She  shivered. 

"  Julia  swears  she  ain't  going  at  all,"  answered  the 

77 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

bully,  somewhat  mollified.  "  Dang  me  if  I  don't  some- 
times think  she  was  sweet  on  that  poacher  chap." 

"  She  ?  "  cried  Liza,  her  pent-up  scorn  ablaze.  "  She's 
sweet  on  them  all,  bad  and  good." 

"  Well,  if  she  is,  she  don't  show  it,"  retorted  Fisty- 
cuffs,  nettled.     Liza  bit  her  lips. 

Immediately  after,  in  the  painful  silence  that  followed, 
there  came  a  loud  knock  at  the  door — such  a  knock  as 
means  a  command.  The  next  moment  two  buttoned-up 
officials  seemed  to  fill  the  room  with  their  presence. 

"  Liza  Brock  ?  "  said  one  of  these  men.  "  Which  is 
Liza  Brock  ?  Look  here,  you  must  come  with  us.  No 
harm's  intended.     Put  on  your  hat  and  come." 

She  sprang  from  her  stool.  "  Have  they  found  it  ?  " 
she  cried. 

"  Found  what  ?  "  The  detective,  to  whom  every 
human  being  was,  of  course,  an  undetected  criminal, 
eyed  her  sharply. 

"  Nothing." 

"  You  just  come  at  once,"  said  the  detective,  less 
kindly  than  before. 

"  Gentlemen,"  spoke  Mary  Brock,  with  obsequious 
resentment,  "  you  needn't  have  given  the  poor  girl  such 
a  turn,  which  is  dangerous,  considering  the  circimistances. 
And  if  either  of  you  knows  by  experience  as  a  father " 

"  Ain't  that  girl  ready  yet  ?  Look  sharp,"  said  the 
inspector. 

"  I  s'pose  'tis  this  same  business  about  her  evi- 
dence  " 

"  Come  along,"  said  the  inspector,  and  bundled  out 
Liza  into  the  night.  The  pair  of  policemen  took  her 
between  them,  and  stumbled  through  the  darkness  till 
they  emerged  upon  the  high  road  at  some  distance  from 

78 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

the  hamlet.  Here  a  hired  wagonette  was  in  waiting. 
Liza  recognized  the  bottle-nosed  driver  asleep  on  the 
step. 

"  Look  sharp,"  said  the  inspector.  That  was  his 
favourite  phrase  :  he  had  risen  in  the  force  by  repeating 
it.  As  the  carriage  rolled  away,  he  flashed  a  dark 
lantern  across  his  watch.  "  We  shall  just  be  in  time," 
he  said,  "  to  catch  the  last  train  at  Horstwyk  Station." 

So  Liza  knew  she  was  being  taken  to  the  town.  She 
resolved  not  to  put  any  questions,  pretending  not  to 
care. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all  her  assumed  indifference,  she  could 
not  keep  her  cheek  from  paling  when,  two  hours  later, 
she  alighted  under  the  dismal  glare  of  a  massive  lantern 
over  heavy  gates.  She  knew  that  these  dead  walls 
enclosed  a  prison.  It  was  here  that  Barend  Everts  sat 
awaiting  his  uncertain  fate. 

She  shivered  between  locked  doors  in  the  chill  of  the 
whitewashed  entry.  But  then  she  forced  herself  to 
remember  that  Barend  was  her  father's  murderer. 
"  What,  in  the  name  of  mercy,  gentlemen,  do  you  want 
with  me  ?  "  These  words  were  at  her  lips,  but  she  did 
not  utter  them  aloud.  For  two  long  hours  she  had  been 
refusing  to  pronounce  them. 

Her  conductors  led  her,  through  whitewashed  passages, 
to  a  whitewashed  parlour.  Everything  was  white- 
washed— doubtless  an  object  lesson  from  the  people 
outside  to  the  people  within.  Liza  remembered  having 
heard  somewhere — not  in  a  church,  for  she  never  went 
there — the  expression  "  a  whited  sepulchre,"  words 
whose  meaning  she  had  never  understood.  She  won- 
dered now  whether  they  could  have  referred  to  the  prison. 
She  was  so  unaccustomed  to  cleanhness,  it  seemed  a 

79 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

hateful  thing.  She  drew  her  shawl  around  her  as  if  to 
avoid  it. 

"  Barend  Everts,  the  murderer,  wants  to  see  you," 
began  the  inspector,  suddenly  dropping  that  mystifica- 
tion which,  with  all  criminal  investigation  people,  passes 
for  cleverness.  "  He's  broke  silence  to-night,  and  says 
he  wants  to  see  you.  The  trial's  to-morrow.  He'll 
confess,  he  says,  to  you." 

She  sank  down  on  one  of  the  rush-bottomed  chairs, 
and  repeated  to  herself  that  she  was  calm.  Her  tight- 
clutching  fingers  tore  away  the  ragged  fringe  from  the 
corners  of  her  shawl. 

A  narrow  door  opened  in  the  wall  at  the  farther  end. 
Two  gentlemen  entered,  one  old  and  one  young.  She 
noticed  that  the  younger  one  carried  a  bundle  of  papers 
and  wore  a  coloured  cravat.  Immediately  after  him 
came  two  warders,  bringing  the  prisoner  between  them. 
In  his  prison  dress  the  latter  already  looked  two-thirds 
a  convict.  His  heavy  hands  were  superfluously  mana- 
cled.    His  appearance  was  dejected  and  numb. 

"  Here,  then,  is  the  young  person  you  were  anxious  to 
speak  to,"  began  the  examining  magistrate,  as  soon  as 
he  had  seated  himself  at  the  table.  After  the  noisy 
entry  of  cumbersome  boots  on  the  boarded  floor  an 
uncomfortable  hush  had  fallen.  Barend  stood  in  the 
loud  light,  seemingly  unconscious  of  his  jailers. 

But  at  the  sound  of  his  persecutor's  voice  he  drew 
away  his  eyes  from  Liza's  face. 

"  Go  away,  you  all,"  he  said  in  a  low  tone. 

His  gaze  travelled  stupidly  round  the  half  a  dozen 
stolid  men.     One  of  the  warders  smiled. 

"  You  forget  to  whom  you  are  speaking !  "  ex- 
claimed  the  magistrate,    angrily    rapping    the    table. 

80 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  Whatever  you  may  wish  to  say  must  be  said  in  my 
presence.  Surely  you  didn't  expect  a  private  inter- 
view with  the  principal  witness  ?  " 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  the  prisoner,  "  I  want  to  speak 
to  Liza." 

The  young  clerk  glanced  up  with  a  gleam  of  interest 
upon  his  good-natured  face.  He  was  a  trifle  too  well 
dressed  and  too  carefully  groomed  for  the  bareness 
and  misery  around. 

"  So  you  can — in  my  presence,"  repeated  the  magis- 
trate testily.  "  Every  word  you  that  say  will  of  course 
be  taken  down." 

He  played  with  his  eyeglass.  In  all  matters  judicial 
he  dreaded  what  he  called  "  the  personal  note." 

"  Then  I  shan't  confess  a  word,"  said  Barend  dog- 
gedly. 

A  long  moment  of  silence  ensued,  so  painful  that 
Liza,  irresistibly,  coughed. 

"  I  wanted  to  tell  you,  Liza,  exactly  how  it  happened," 
began  Barend  immediately.  "  I  can't  tell  the  Govern- 
ment ;  I'm  too  great  a  fool ;  they'd  twist  it  all  against 
me.  I've  thought  it  all  out  in  prison.  I've  not  been 
unhappy  in  prison.  Government's  better  to  poor 
people  in  prison  than  it  is  to  poor  people  outside." 
He  paused,  as  if  ruminating  this  great  truth.  The 
clerk's  pen  scratched  across  the  paper,  "  than  it  is  to 
poor  people  outside." 

"  You  needn't  put  in  that  bit,"  said  the  magistrate 
leaning  over. 

Barend  suddenly  veered  round  to  the  girl — so  sud- 
denly that  the  warders  caught  at  him..  He  shook  them 
off.  '■  Listen  well,"  he  said,  "  remember  it  afterwards. 
I've  thought  it  all  out  in  prison.  I've  never  been  a  good 
6  8i 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

man,  Liza.  I've  never  pretended  to  be.  I  don't  mean 
about  the  poaching.  I  can't  fancy  God  Almighty 
thinks  catching  one  hare  in  a  hundred  a  very  bad  crime. 
Seems  to  me,  before  Government  made  the  game  laws, 
God  Almighty  had  already  given  all  the  game  away." 

The  young  Nimrod  at  the  table  swept  every  vestige 
of  sympathy  from  face  and  heart  in  one  gigantic  frown. 
"  No,  I  don't  mean  the  poaching,  but  all  the  same  I'm 
not  a  good  man.  But  it  was  all  such  a  muddle  at  first, 
that  I  couldn't  make  out  for  the  life  of  me  if  I'd  done  it 
or  not.  But  I  wondered  if  God  Almighty  would  tell 
me — He  must  know,  I  suppose,  although  nobody  else 

does — and    one    night    I    asked   Him,   and "     He 

turned  on  the  hearkening  group  all  round  him  :  "  Damn 
you  all !  "  he  burst  out.  "  How  can  I  tell  her  how 
God  Almighty  helped  me,  with  all  you  standing  by  ?  " 
The  magistrate,  three  fingers  thrown  up  in  alarm,  made 
as  if  he  would  have  repressed  such  language,  but  re- 
frained. The  criminal  again  turned  away ;  his  tone 
had  so  completely  changed,  it  sounded  almost  jocular. 
"  Look  here,  Liza,"  he  said,  "  it's  aU  nonsense,  you 
know.  I  never  murdered  Hunkum.  They  say  they've 
got  plenty  of  evidence.  How  can  they  have  plenty  of 
evidence  of  what  I  never  did  ?    They  only  say  it  to 

frighten  me.     When  I  found  you "     The  gentlemen 

at  the  table  exchanged  glances.  Liza  caught  the 
movement  and  hfted  a  warning  hand. 

"  There,  you  see !  "  cried  the  prisoner,  his  face 
instantly  gone  white.  "  They'd  twist  everything 
against  me.  I  won't  say  another  word.  But  mark 
you  this,  Liza,  whatever  they  may  prove  or  witness  at 
the  trial  to-morrow,  I  never  hurt  your  father.  Re- 
member that,  won't  you  ?    That's  all."     He  made  a 

82 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

clumsy  bow  to  the  magistrate  and  slouched  towards  the 
door.     Halfway  he  halted  and  came  back. 

"  It  can't  be  helped,  then,"  he  said  in  a  stifled  voice. 
"  You  must  just  make  believe  there's  no  one  listening. 
I  love  you,  Liza.  I've  always  loved  you.  I've  never 
loved — not  loved — anybody  else.  It's  worth  being 
dragged  here  in  this  way — isn't  it  ? — to  hear  any  man 
say  that.  Good-night."  He  stood  still.  She  went 
forward  to  him ;  twisting  his  hand  round  as  best  she 
could,  in  the  manacles,  she  clasped  it  with  steadfast 
face. 

"  Remove  the  prisoner."  said  the  old  magistrate 
mildly.  He  rose,  and  the  young  man  with  him.  The 
latter  beckoned  the  inspector.  "  Find  that  girl  some 
decent  lodging  for  the  night,"  he  said.  "  Look  after 
her."  The  police  officer  saluted,  and,  when  the  gentle- 
men were  gone,  tore  a  leaf  from  his  pocket-book. 

"  There  !  "  he  said,  hastily  writing  down  an  address, 
"  you'll  be  all  right  there.  It's  my  belief  you're  just 
an  accomplice.  Past  midnight !  I  can't  be  bothered. 
Look  sharp ! " 


VIII 

In  the  great  court  the  great  trial  was  on.  In  the 
great  court,  with  its  long-drawn  hush,  its  stifled  crowd, 
its  continuous  murmur  at  the  farther  end.  The 
Hemelers,  all  personally  interested,  had  pushed  to  the 
front,  their  uncleanness  affording  them  a  pass.  Most 
of  them  now  hung  over  the  barrier  triumphant,  and 
nodded  to  the  witnesses  down  below,  in  proof  that  they 
also  were  connected  with  the  affair. 

83 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

Liza,  looking  straight  ahead,  as  she  passed  through 
the  special  entrance,  had  been  astonished  to  see  Fisty- 
cuffs  already  ensconced  in  the  corner  allotted  to  wit- 
nesses. He  was  laughing  and  nodding  to  some  one  in 
the  gallery  :  Liza,  following  his  gaze,  caught  Juha's 
insolent  response.  The  next  moment  Fistycuffs  sat 
awkwardly  studying  his  boots.  He  had  no  wish  to 
offend  the  heiress  before  she  became  his  wife. 

"  Ferdy  a  witness  ?  "  questioned  Liza.  Why  had 
he  not  told  her  ?  And  why  had  he  never  been  present 
at  any  of  the  prehminary  proceedings  ?  Her  heart 
misgave  her.  He  had  seen  Barend  leave  the  cottage. 
That  was  all,  but  it  was  a  great  deal ;  perhaps  it  would 
prove  enough.  He  had  always  said  the  police  must 
help  themselves.  Pals  or  police  ?  No  man  of  honour 
would  help  the  police. 

Oh,  what  did  the  whole  wretched  business  matter  to 
her  ?  Again  and  again  she  had  reiterated  that  question 
through  the  long  night  watch  in  her  luxurious  lodging- 
house  bed.  Again  and  again  she  had  told  herself — 
nothing.  And  the  question  had  risen,  unanswered, 
across  the  reply. 

She  would  give  her  insignificant  evidence.  She 
had  found  the  house  unopened,  that  was  all.  That 
would  inculpate  nobody.  Now  Fistycuffs  would  add 
that  he  had  seen  Barend  leave  the  cottage.  Well,  that 
was  true  ;  could  she  help  it  ?  Surely  it  would  not  be 
sufficient  to  convict  any  one  of  murder.  And  if  the 
Government  thought  that  it  was,  the  law  must  take  its 
course.  What  could  she,  a  wretched  girl  from  the 
Hemel,  understand  about  Government  ? 

Whatever  might  have  been  her  doubts  or  hesitations 
before,  since  last  night  she  knew  Barend  was  innocent. 

84 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

He  had  told  her.  And,  until  she  saw  Fistycuffs 
mysteriously  included  among  the  witnesses,  she  had 
never  seriously  believed  but  that  the  prosecution  would 
fail.  Every  one  had  said  it  must  fail  for  want  of 
evidence.  In  legal  investigation,  as  she  knew,  guilt  or 
innocence  does  not  seriously  matter,  but  proof. 

Barend,  then,  would  be  liberated,  and  she  would 
marry  Fistycuffs.  She  would  have  plenty  of  money  to 
make  Fistycuffs  happy  with,  and  her  shame  would  be 
taken  away.  Never  would  child  of  hers  rise  up  against 
her,  as  she  rose  against  Mary  Brock  !  Fistycuffs,  if 
only  he  had  money,  was  good-natured  and  kind. 
Everybody  said  so.  She  would  be  happy  with  Fisty- 
cuffs. 

The  Public  Prosecutor  was  reading  his  Act  of  Accusa- 
tion, as  they  call  it.  It  seemed  very  lengthy  and  very 
strongly  worded.  To  hear  him,  you  would  fancy  the 
proofs  were  overwhelming.  She  strained  to  understand 
what  he  was  saying,  before  he  should  be  saying  some- 
thing else.  A  witness,  he  declared,  would  be  forth- 
coming who  could  testify  to  the  actual  commission  of 
the  crime.  A  thrill  of  astonishment  ran  through  the 
audience.  She  did  not  remark  it :  for  her  a  handful 
of  personages  filled  the  vast  building  :  the  prisoner, 
Fistycuffs,  the  judges — perhaps  Julia — and  herself. 

The  first  witness  of  interest  was  Jaap  Avis.  The 
Hemel,  bored  by  technicalities,  expected  a  little  diversion 
from  him,  but  not  much  excitement  from  any  one. 
There  were  no  witnesses :  that  was  the  misfortune. 

Jaap  Avis,  intuitively  prying,  had  seen  Barend  slink 
home  at  daybreak  in  sorry  plight.  It  was  Providence, 
said  Jaap  Avis,  which  had  caused  him,  at  the  right 
moment,  to  draw  back  his  window-blind. 

85 


•  JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

For  the  first,  and  last,  time  during  the  proceedings 
the  prisoner  smiled.  He  knew  that  Providence  was 
Jaap  Avis'  drunken  neighbour's  dirt-sodden  "  wife " 
■ — the  widow  with  the  black  ringlets  and  pleading 
eyes,   his   own — the   prisoner's — quondam   landlady. 

"  You  were  up  early,"  said  the  presiding  judge  to 
the  witness. 

"  Yes,  my  lord  judge,"  smirked  Jaap  Avis,  "  and  the 
last  to  go  home  the  night  before." 

"  Drunk,"  said  the  prisoner's  counsel. 

But  the  presiding  judge  ruled  this  question  irrelevant, 
unless  counsel  desired  to  argue  that  witness  was  still 
drunk  in  the  morning.  The  advocate  hastened  to 
deprecate  any  such  intention.  His  had  merely  been 
an  involuntary  annotation ;  without  any  hint  of 
inquiry  in  it.  He  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  that  six 
hours  would  suffice  to  render  any  Hemeler  sober — as 
sober  as  a  judge.  The  Hemelers  grinned  at  each  other, 
gratified,  in  perfect  good  faith,  by  the  compliment. 
The  lawyer  was  a  teetotaler,  inclined  to  grow  rabid. 
All  gin's  sin  :  all  sin's  gin.     That  was  his  theory. 

It  was  proved,  then,  that  Barend  had  come  home 
without  his  jacket.  Not  much  more  was  proved.  His 
counsel  eagerly  pointed  out  that  the  jacket  had  not 
been  found  in  Hunkum's  cottage,  that  its  absence 
therefore  disculpated  his  client  :  the  man  had  been 
poaching 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  the  President  testily.  "  Quite  true. 
If  the  prisoner  would  but  say  where  the  jacket  was 
lost "  But  the  prisoner  would  say  nothing,  cor- 
rectly surmising  that,  among  lawyers,  only  the  guilty 
may  possibly  find  benefit  in  speech.  The  disconcerted 
judges  declared  his  attitude  indecent.    The  advocate, 

86 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

despairing,  clenched  both  fists  underneath  his  desk. 
The  general  conviction  deepened  that  the  prisoner  was 
guilty,  but  would  get  off. 

It  was  then  that  the  Public  Prosecutor  called  for 
Ferdinand.  He  stepped  forward  brightly,  but  he 
didn't  look  at  Liza.  A  smile  of  prospective  triumph 
lit  the  Prosecutor's  yellow  face,  Liza  clutched  at  the 
rail  in  front  of  her.  Supposing  Fisty  had  found  the 
jacket  ?  Why  had  she  gone  so  often,  at  midnight, 
to  make  sure  it  was  still  there  ?  Why  had  she  gone 
last  night  again  ?  Supposing  her  lover  betrayed  the 
man  who  loved  her  ?  The  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes. 

The  next  moment  she  steadied  herself.  After  all, 
she  couldn't  help  it.  She  must  speak  the  truth.  So, 
of  course,  must  Fistycuffs.  And  the  law  must  take  its 
course. 

"  I  followed  the  prisoner,"  Fistycuffs  said  smoothly. 
His  clear  accents  filled  the  silent  hall.  "  It  was  close 
upon  twelve  o'clock  :  I  wondered  where  he  was  going. 
I  thought  he  was  after  Jan  Hunkum's  chickens.  Jan 
Hunkum  had  no  chickens.  I  saw  him  go  round  the 
house  to  the  little  window  at  the  back." 

"  Was  it  a  moonlit  night  ?  "  inquired  the  President. 

"  N — n — no,"  replied  Fistycuffs,  "  it  was  not  a 
moonlit  night.  I  was  quite  close  to  him.  And  he 
wrenched  away  the  iron  bars  from  the  window,  and  so 
he  got  in." 

"  Could  you  wrench  away  iron  bars  like  that  ? " 
asked  the  President. 

"  Yes,"  said  Fistycuffs.  Barend  Everts  looked  to- 
wards him,  quietly.  The  Hemelers  nudged  each 
other,  their  wide  mouths  stretching  from  ear  to  ear. 

87 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MOiNEY 

"  I  crept  round  to  the  bedroom  window,"  continued 
the  witness.  "  There  was  a  chink  in  the  shutter  and 
I  looked  through.  Jan  Hunkum  was  sitting  in  bed, 
with  his  money  heaped  up  around  him,  heaps  of  money, 
all  around  him,  heaps  of  banknotes  and  silver  and 
gold  !  " 

"  Not  silver,"  interposed  the  Public  Prosecutor  softly. 

"  I  fancied  there  was  silver  as  well,"  replied  Fisty- 
cuffs,  half  apologetic,  half  reproachful.  "  Poor  men 
like  me  can't  distinguish  properly  when  they  see  a  lot 
of  treasure  heaped  up  like  that." 

"  And,  besides,  the  chink  was  narrow,"  said  the 
Prosecutor,  turning  to  the  judges. 

"  And,  besides,  the  chink  was  extraordinary  narrow. 
Barend  Everts  went  straight  up  to  the  bed,  with  one 
of  the  window  bars  in  his  hand,  and  he  struck  Jan 
Hunkum  down  with  it  among  the  bedclothes,  dead." 

"  How  did  you  know  he  was  dead  ?  "  asked  the 
President. 

"  He  looked  dead.  Mynheer  the  President.  Barend 
Everts  dragged  down  the  body  and  threw  it  on  the  floor. 
Then  he  filled  his  pockets  with  gold  and  banknotes, 
stuffing  them  in  anyhow  as  fast  as  he  could.  And 
then  he  upset  the  burning  petroleum  lamp  among  the 
rest  of  the  papers,  and  then  he  ran  away." 

Fistycuffs  stopped  speaking,  and  now  looked  across 
at  Liza,  magnificently  :  his  task  was  accomplished,  his 
success  assured.  A  long  thrill  of  delighted  horror  per- 
vaded his  audience,  which  had  never  doubted  the  im- 
mensity of  Barend's  secreted  spoil.  But  some  of  the 
bolder  spirits  amongst  the  Hemelers  stared  curiously. 
They  had  often  felt  interested  in  Jan  Hunkum's  shutters. 
They  had  never  found  chinks. 

88 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  The  pockets  of  his  jacket  ?  "  inconsistently  ques- 
tioned the  President. 

"  Which  hide  the  treasure  they  are  hidden  with  to 
this  day,"  suggested  the  Prosecutor. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  the  witness,  for  the  President 
awaited  an  answer.  He  added  :  "  The  chink  was  ex- 
traordinary narrow." 

"  Mr.  President,"  said  the  prisoner's  advocate,  "  that 
chink  seems  to  have  expanded  and  contracted  at  will," 
The  President  frowned.  He  was  delighted  with  this 
unexpected  assistance.  Of  course,  as  they  all  knew, 
the  prisoner  was  guilty.  They  would  be  able  to  prove 
him  so  now. 

But  the  President  was  a  moral  man.  He  liked  to 
point  a  moral,  just  as  Fistycuffs  ilked  to  adorn  a 
tale. 

'  Did  it  not  occur  to  you,  witness,"  he  began,  "  when 
you  saw  the  prisoner  enter  the  house,  that  you  might, 
by  immediately  following  him,  avert  an  impending 
catastrophe  ?  " 

"  Do  what,  your  worship  ?  "  aked  Fistycuffs,  to  gain 
time. 

"  Might  prevent  the  old  man's  being  killed !  "  ex- 
plained the  President  angrily. 

Fistycuffs  opened  his  eyes.  He  wanted  to  marry 
Liza  without  more  delay.  He  was  not  in  the  world 
to  avert  catastrophes. 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  it  didn't  occur  to  me.  I  didn't 
know  there  was  going  to  be  murder.  And,  besides,  is 
your  worship  aware  that,  if  I  had  entered  Jan  Hun- 
kum's  house,  I  should  never  have  been  able  to  inherit 
a  penny  of  Jan  Hunkum's  gold  ?  " 

"  You  are  almost  an  accomplice,"  said  the  President, 
89 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

very  red  in  the  face.  "  The  moral  standard  of  the  lower 
classes  in  this  country  is  deplorable.  It  is  incompre- 
hensible, when  all  the  non-Christian  virtues  are  daily 
taught  in  the  undenominational  schools.  This  man's 
evidence  is  of  the  greatest  importance.  You  can  step 
down." 

The  Public  Prosecutor  popped  up.  "  We  have  now 
to  hear  the  statement,"  he  said,  "  of  the  girl  who  warned 
the  constables,  whereupon  these  latter  found  the  victim 
lying  exactly  as  the  last  witness  has  described.  That, 
with  some  minor,  technical,  evidence,  will  complete 
the  case." 

"  Speak  up,"  said  the  President  to  Liza,  before  she 
had  spoken  a  word. 

She  turned  when  she  stood  in  open  court,  desirous 
only  not  to  see  Fistycuffs. 

"  Look  this  way,"  said  the  President.  An  usher 
pushed  her.  She  gazed  up  at  the  lofty  tribunal,  the 
robed  judges,  the  big  inkstands,  the  majesty  of  the 
law. 

"  Please,  I  must  stand  like  this,"  she  said  in  tones 
thick  like  a  swollen  torrent.  "  It's  all  lies  what  the 
last  witness  has  been  saying.  It's  lies,  my  lords, 
lies  !  I  can  prove  it.  Let  me  speak,  like  this  !  Leave 
me  alone,  you  man  !  I  can  prove  it.  It  is  hcs, 
lies,  lies  !  "  No  one  had  stopped  her.  They  fell  back 
in  amazement.  The  Hemelers,  who  considered  the 
heiress  their  own  especial,  important  property,  had 
concentrated  much  of  their  attention  upon  her  from 
the  first.  The  whole  crowded  concourse,  however, 
now  suddenly  realizing  that  this  was  the  heroine  of 
the  tragical  story,  the  murdered  man's  daughter,  the 
last    witness's    sweetheart,    the    ragged    inheritress   of 

90 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

fabulous  wealth — the  whole  concourse  rose,  struggling, 
to  stare  at  her,  to  see  her,  enjoy  and  understand  her, 
to  get  an  impression,  a  sensation,  something  engrossing 
that  you  can  carry  away.  There  v/as  a  flutter,  and 
the  continuous  "Hush,  hush! "of  increasing  excite- 
ment. Her  rapid  words  came  tumbling,  as  waves 
before  the  wind. 

"  It  is  lies,"  she  repeated.  "  I  can  prove  it.  He 
cannot  have  been  near  Jan  Hunkum's  cottage.  He 
cannot  have  seen  what  he  says  he  saw.  It  isn't  true, 
and  if  it  had  been  true  he  couldn't  have  seen  it." 

"  Why  not,  pray  ?  "  asked  the  judge. 

"  Because  it's  lies.  All  Hes."  The  Prosecutor  smiled 
again,  "  You  will  have  to  prove  what  you  say. 
You  are  engaged  to  the  last  witness,  are  you  not  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  You  give  your  lover  a  very  bad  character.  What 
is  your  reason  for  affirming  that  he  has  not  spoken 
the  truth  ?  " 

"  I  would  rather  not  say.     But  it's  all  lies." 

Despite  the  general  tension  a  ripple  of  laughter 
passed  over  the  public.  The  professionals  steadied 
their  faces  to  a  sneer. 

"  You  will  have  to  say.  To  say  everything.  To 
prove,  instantly,  your  charge." 

"  I  can  prove  it." 

"  How  ?  "  the  President  barked. 

"  Because  he  was  with  me."  She  spoke  the  words 
quite  softly  :  everybody  heard  them  at  the  back  of  the 
gallery. 

There  was  a  silence.  Presently  the  Public  Prosecutor 
said — "  We  know  he  was.  That  is  to  say,  he  had  been. 
It  was  coming  away  from  the  witness  which  made  him 

91 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

so  late.  They  had  enjoyed  each  other's  company  till 
very  near  midnight,  Mynheer  the  President.  That 
is  no  business  of  mine." 

"  The  morals  of  the  rural  population  !  "  said  the 
President,  and  he  threw  up  both  hands.  By  the  way, 
he  owned  a  wife  for  each. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  Ferdy  !  "  exclaimed  Liza  desperately, 
still  staring  away  over  the  heads  of  the  judges.  "  I 
must  tell  them  !  You  know  you  were  in  the  pig- stye  ! 
You  know  I  had  locked  you  up  in  the  pig-stye ! 
Your  worships,  I  had  locked  him  up  in  the  pig-stye, 
because — because  I  wanted  to  !  He  stayed  there  all 
night,  your  worships.  He  couldn't  have  seen  any- 
thing happen  anywhere,  my  lords  !  " 

"  You  seem  to  do  most  things  because  you  want  to," 
said  the  President.  "  Are  you  in  a  hurry  to  be  married 
because  you  want  to,  or  because  you  must  ?  "  He 
leered  at  her  :  the  Public  Prosecutor  bit  his  nails. 

"  Because  I  must,"  she  answered  fearlessly.  She 
threw  back  her  head,  facing  them  all,  in  her  rage. 
"  And  I  want  to  as  well,"  she  added.  "  But  it's  lies 
about  Hunkum's  falling  dead  !  Fistycuffs — Ferdinand 
says  he  saw  Hunkum  fall  dead  under  a  blow  from 
Barend.  I  love  him — yes,  gentlemen,  I  love  him  !  " — 
she  shrieked  out  the  words — "  I'm  going  to  marry 
him  as  you  say,  but  he  musn't  say  it,  gentlemen,  he 
mayn't  say  it !  I  know  it  isn't  true,  for  why  ? — 
when " 

She  stopped  suddenly.  She  perfectly  realized  what 
was  coming.     She  knew  what  she  was  going  to  do. 

"  When  ?  "  said  the  President,  bending  across  the 
table.  His  fat  hands,  from  the  distance,  seemed  to  be 
fumbling  at  her  breast. 

92 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

She  hesitated.     Why,  after  all,  should  she  do  it  ? 

"  When  I  reached  Jan  Hunkum's  house  in  the  early 
morning,"  she  struggled  on,  "  I  heard  a  sound  inside  of 
someone  moaning,  and  I  crept  through  the  little  window 
and  got  inside." 

A  loud  oath  sprang  from  Fisty cuff's  throat  like  a 
pistol-shot.  The  Hemelers  surged  forward,  their  faces 
aflame,  rapacious,  exultant,  exuberant. 

"  Silence  !  "  cried  the  President,  in  a  fury.  And 
now  Liza  turned  round,  looking  straight  at  her  lover, 
and  speaking  very  fast. 

"  Jan  Hunkum  was  still  alive,"  she  said.  "  He  couldn't 
speak  to  me.  But  the  iron  bar  was  in  his  hand,  clutched 
tight,  and  he  lay  beside  the  money-chest,  and  he'd 
struck  his  head  on  the  edge,  I  suppose,  but  the  bar 
was  in  his  hand,  my  lord  !  " 

The  prisoner  had  sunk  his  face  on  his  hands,  hiding 
it  completely. 

"  And  that  is  all  I  have  to  say,  my  lord.  It's  the 
truth,  the  Gospel  truth,  and  not  a  word's  been  added. 
I  couldn't  help  it,  Ferdy.  I  should  never  have  spoke 
if  you  hadn't  forced  me  to  by " 

"Silence!"  cried  the  President  again.  "  Do  you 
know,  my  girl,  that  you  charge  your  lover  with  perjury  ? 
Perjury — that's  swearing  false.  Either  he  or  you 
swear  false.  He  will  go  to  prison  on  a  charge  of 
perjury." 

Liza  stretched  out  both  hands  to  Fistycuffs.  The 
look  in  his  eyes  met  hers.  "  Don't,  Ferdy !  "  she 
cried,  and  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  of  the  court. 


93 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 


IX 


In  the  darkened  garret — it  was  dark  enough,  at  best — 
she  lay  stretched  on  her  bed.  The  surroundings  were 
far  from  beautiful,  but  there  was  a  white  look  on  her 
dusky  face  which  somehow  partly  beautified  them. 
She  opened  her  eyes. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  child,"  she  said  wearily. 

"  The  child's  dead,"  replied  Mary,  in  a  loud  voice. 
Presently  she  sniffed,  but  rather  in  defiance  of  some 
unknown  fate  than  in  sorrow, 

Liza  closed  her  eyes  again,  and  the  lashes  slowly 
moistened.  It  was  some  time  before  she  said — "  All 
right." 

Again  there  was  a  long  pause.  Then  Mary  re- 
marked— "  You  can  see  it  all  the  same,"  and  she  got 
up  and  brought  the  httle  bundle  across. 

"  I  should  be  glad  it  was  dead,"  said  Liza,  gazing 
steadily,  "  if  I  was  dead  too,  and — and  Ferdinand. 
I  wish  Ferdinand  was  dead  too,  and  me." 

"  What !  "  exclaimed  Mary.  "  You  don't  mean 
to  say  you  still  care  for  that  scoundrel  Fistycuffs  ? 
You  haven't  mentioned  his  name,  Liza,  since  you  left 
off  being  delirious.  Not  that  you've  said  much  since 
then.  But  to  care  for  a  scoundrel  like  Fistycuffs ! 
I'm  glad  the  babe's  dead,  for  it  might  have  been  like 
him." 

"  Hush,  mother !  Yes,  you're  right,"  murmured 
Liza.  "  Yes,  it's  best  about  the  baby.  I — I  don't 
want,  I'm  sure,  to  speak  about  Ferdinand.  I  don't 
want  never  to  mention  his  name  again.     He's  dead  to 

94 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

me.     But  I  wish  we  was  both  under  the  black  earth, 
mother,  and  nobody  to  speak  of  the  shame." 

"  Ferdinand's  in  prison,"  retorted  Mary. 

It  was  what  Liza  had  dreaded  throughout  the  gloomy 
days,  yet  the  fact  came  home  to  her  with  a  shock. 
She  burst  into  a  crying  fit. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool !  "  objected  Mary.  "  Where  else 
should  he  be,  if  you  please,  with  judges  in  the  land  ? 
They  ought  to  hang  him.     The  scoundrel !  " 

"Don't,  mother,"  sobbed  the  girl.  "I  don't  care 
about  Ferdinand.  I  don't  never  want  to  hear  his 
name  again.  But  I  don't  want  you,  neither,  to  speak 
like  that.  If  he's  in  prison,  it's  ray  doing.  Will  they 
— will  they  punish  him  bad  ?  " 

"  Indeed  they  will,"  replied  Mary,  with  conviction. 
"  It's  swearing  lies,  and  that's  a  crime  against  the 
Queen.  Not  like  swearing  ordinary,  or  telling  common 
lies,  which  ain't  crimes  at  all,  Joop  says.  They'll 
make  it  penal  servitude.    And  serve  him  right." 

"  The  lamp  smells  so,"  said  Liza  wearily.  "I  do 
wish  it  wouldn't  smell.     It  makes  my  head  so  bad." 

"  Well,  you've  grown  mighty  finical  to  mind  the 
smell  of  a  lamp,"  replied  her  mother.  "  You'll  be 
better  soon  now,  Liza  :  Aunt  Judith  says  so,  and  she 
came  and  '  read  the  words '  over  you  again  last  night. 
She's  been  wonderful  good  about  '  exercising '  you. 
And  when  you're  a  wee  bit  stronger,  you  won't  mind 
no  smells  of  lamps." 

"  But  I  wish  you'd  open  the  window  now,"  said 
Liza.  Her  mother  obeyed,  grumbling.  As  the  sash 
went  up — it  was  a  sort  of  skyliglit — there  came  through 
the  mirky  air,  faintly  across  the  distance,  a  sound  of 
uproarious  singing,  of  drunken  revelry. 

95 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

"  That's  your  doing,"  said  Mary  moodily.  "  Not 
Fistycuff' s  being  in  prison,  which  is  his  very  own.  But 
that's  your  doing,  more  fool  you  !  " 

"  What's  my  doing  ?  "  asked  Liza,  turning  her 
head  on  the  pillow. 

"  Why,  all  that  noise  there  !  The  singing  and  goings 
on  at  Joop's,  and  half  a  dozen  other  places  !  I'ts 
been  so  night  after  night,  ever  since  they  come  back 
from  the  trial,  and  that  is  a  week  ago  to-day.  They're 
spending  the  money  that's  going  to  come  to  'em — 
thanks  to  you,  that  squandered  your  rightful  property 
amongst  a  lot  of  ne'er-do-wells.  Not  a  house  in  the 
Hemel,  they  do  say,  excepting  ours,  but  gets  its  hundreds 
or  thousands,  Liza — Brock  !  " 

"You'll  get  your  share,"  murmured  Liza.  "Please 
mother,  I  couldn't  help  it.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  go  to 
sleep." 

With  a  grunt  Mary  retreated  to  the  lamp.  She 
sat  down  helplessly,  a  bit  of  towelling  between  her 
dirty  fingers.  It  was  just  a  week  to-day  since  Liza, 
on  the  night  of  her  return  from  the  trial,  had  given 
untimely  birth  to  a  puling  babe.  The  babe  had  stopped 
puhng  yesterday.  The  bit  of  towelling  lay  on 
Mary's  lap,  the  needle  sticking  in  its  third  uneven 
hem. 

To-day,  according  to  Dutch  legal  usage,  the  verdict 
had  been  pronounced  in  the  city,  and,  doubtless,  Barend 
had  been  released.  Every  one  said  he  must  be  released — 
for  want  of  evidence.  As  for  the  unsolved  mystery, 
the  triangular  psychological  puzzle,  those  now  in- 
terested professionals  only.  Fistycuffs,  hopelessly 
ruined,  had  confessed,  with  abundance  of  tears.  People 
wanted  Barend  to  get  off.     The  Hemelers,  prospectively 

96 


JAN    HUNKUM'S    MONEY 

wealthy,  were  not  inclined  to  be  hard  on  the  author 
of  their  good  fortune. 

Mary  Brock  had  fallen  crushed  beneath  the  crash 
of  all  her  splendid  aspirations.  At  first  she  could 
only  sit  and  moan.  Then,  at  last,  she  got  up — because 
she  had  to — and  nursed  both  child  and  grandchild, 
in  very  clumsy  manner,  nursed  them  and  cursed  them 
and  cried  over  them  alternately — or  even  simultan- 
eously, when  her  feelings  got  too  much  for  her  under 
the  deep  depression  of  Liza  Hunkum's — Hunkum's, 
mind  you  ! — self-defeat. 

She  sighed  again.  She  felt  she  was  a  wicked  woman  : 
the  music  maddened  her.  She  rejoiced  at  any  relief. 
The  door  creaked  open,  and  Barend  Everts  stood  before 
her. 

He  seemed  to  fill  the  attic.  She  thought  he  looked 
all  the  better  for  his  long  seclusion.  There  had  been 
some  strange  rumour,  lately,  of  money  having  come 
to  him.     But  that  was  doubtless  false. 

He  came  right  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  stopped 
a  moment  to  gaze  down  on  the  dead  baby,  looked 
across  to  Mary,  seemed  about  to  say  something,  and 
then  checking  himself,  in  the  hush,  turned  to  the  dark 
corner,  to  the  bed. 

He  kneeled  beside  it.  "  Liza,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you.      I  want  to  say  something.     May  I  ?  " 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

"  I'm  going  to  America,"  he  hurried  on.  "  I've  got 
some  money,  Liza.  'Tis  the  final  payment  on  my 
mother's  legacy — her  aunt's,  you  remember — it's  come 
whilst  I  was  in  prison — five  thousand  guilders — a  trifle 
over.  I'm  going  to  America  to  try  and  farm.  I  want 
you  to  come  with  me,  Liza." 
7  97 


JAN    HUNKUM'S     MONEY 

"  How  could  I  ?  "  she  said  softly.  "  I  don't  deserve 
to,  Barend.  Oh,  Barend,  you  mustn't  take  me.  Oh, 
no,  no,  no." 

"  Liza,  have  you  got  my  jacket  ?  Did  you  hide  it  ? 
Have  you  got  it  still  ?  " 

She  nodded. 
'  Liza,  won't  you  marry  me  ?  " 

''  No,  no,  no,"  she  said  almost  inaudibly,  unwillingly, 
ever  fainter. 

He  bent  so  close,  he  kissed  her  before  and  between 
the  words. 


98 


The  Fair-Lover 


ANNEKE  PETERS  stood  before  the  cottage  door. 
She  had  finished  the  drudgery  of  the  day  for  the 
day.  To-morrow  morning  she  would  begin  the  whole 
thing  over  again,  as  she  had  begun  it  yesterday,  patiently. 
Anneke  Peters  was  a  good  girl.  She  knew  it.  That  was 
the  one  bright  spot  in  her  life  of  monotonous  doing- 
your-best. 

For  seven  years,  ever  since  her  father  died,  she  had 
lived  with  her  widowed  uncle,  old  Pete  Peters  ;  Pete  the 
miser,  as  the  village  called  him,  "  Mammie's  Grave 
Pete."  Her  own  mother  she  could  not  remember  :  her 
father,  she  remembered,  drank.  She  was  fourteen  when 
she  came  to  keep  house  for  Uncle  Pete  ;  she  had  never 
done  anything  else,  excepting,  before  that,  keep  house 
for  her  father.  The  latter  had  frequently  abused,  and 
occasionally  fondled  her  :  Uncle  Pete  had  never  done 
either,  but  he  grumbled  from  morning  till  night.  He 
was  a  respectable  man  in  his  way  :  born  amongst  a 
pauper  set,  he  had  worked  himself  up  a  few  steps  in  the 
world,  as  a  pedlar,  by  sheer  industry  and  lies.  He  had 
a  talent  for  commercial  mendacity,  the  lie  that  pays  ; 
he  was  the  cleverest  liar  for  miles  around.  He  would 
swear  himself  black  in  the  face,  while  describing  his 

99 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

goods,  "  by  the  grave  of  his  sister  "  ;  his*  excuse  to 
himself,  and  to  God,  being  this,  that  he  never  had  had 
any  sister  to  swear  by.  But  when  he  substituted 
"  mother's  "  for  "  sister's  "  he  could  always  be  relied  on. 
Those  who  had  frequent  doings  with  him  found  him  out, 
and  that  is  how  he  got  his  nickname.  In  middle  life  he 
had  married,  and  soon  after  lost,  a  childless  widow  with 
a  competency.  He  then  gave  up  his  little  business,  and 
henceforward  did  nothing,  living  poorly,  and  lying  for 
diversion,  as  he  had  formerly  lied  for  gain.  His  other 
amusement  was  grumbling.  He  grumbled  at  every- 
thing and  everybody,  the  Government,  the  weather, 
and  Anneke,  from  morning  till  night.  And  he  told 
stories  all  over  the  village,  inventing  complications, 
embroiling  neighbours,  keeping  up  a  sort  of  perpetual 
April  fooling  and  finding  it  excellent  sport. 

Anneke  worked  from  morning  till  night  to  make  all 
things  go  so  well  there  should  be  no  cause  for  grumbling, 
but  that  undertaking  is  hopeless  where  the  grumbler 
needs  no  cause.  She  was  very  ignorant,  she  could 
barely  read  and  write,  but  she  had  a  natural  liking  for 
refinement  of  the  outer  kind — for  pretty  things  and 
pleasantness ;  she  put  a  couple  of  geraniums  upon  the 
window-sill,  though  "  Mammie's  Grave  Pete  "  complained 
they  kept  you  from  seeing  the  girls  go  by. 

"  Boys  go  by,"  he  corrected  himself,  with  a  leer. 
*'  They  don't  stop  to  look  in,  Anneke — much  less,  cross 
the  threshold."  He  had  few  jokes,  but  frequent. 
"  There's  none  come  to  fetch  you  for  the  Kermesse," 
he  said.     He  said  it  over  and  over  again. 

He  had  grumbled  over  it  on  this  summer  evening, 
complaining  that  no  man  would  ever  come  to  take  her 
off  his  hands.     Here  was  Truda  engaged  to  the  hand- 

100 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

somest  ne'er-do-well  that  had  ever  left  black  children 
behind  him  in  India,  and  nobody  to  give  Anneke  as 
much  as  a  look,  unless  it  be  the  blind  beggar,  Jan 
Siemen. 

Anneke  had  not  replied  that  she  saved  her  uncle  a 
servant,  nor  had  she  pointed  out  that  Jan  Siemen  never 
came  near  their  uncharitable  door.  She  had  simply 
gone  and  stood  outside  in  the  early  summer  twilight, 
and  thought  how  beautifully  clear  and  still  the  sky  was 
in  the  soft  blue  evening  shades. 

Yes,  Truda  was  engaged.  To  handsome  Harmen 
Reys,  the  Indian  corporal.  Truda,  the  child  of  Aunt 
Peters'  prosperous  sister,  the  wealthy  innkeeper's  only 
daughter,  whose  father  jingled  his  keys  and  talked  of 
his  "  iron  safe  "  ;  Truda,  who  wore  clothes  to  church 
on  Sunday  such  as  no  other  girl  could  have  got  at 
honestly.  Truda  Batsy  had  always  scorned  her  low- 
born uncle's  lower  niece.  She  had  been  taught  to  do  so, 
and  had  gladly  learnt  the  lesson.  "  We  must  be  decent 
to  '  Mammie's  Grave,'  "  said  Juffrouw  Batsy.  "  It'll 
be  all  the  better  when  he  steps  into  his  own." 

"  Then  I  wish  to  God  he  would,"  said  the  innkeeper. 

"  But,  as  for  Anneke  Peters,  she's  of  no  account  at 
all,"  said  Juffrouw  Batsy.  She  had  slapped  Truda  as  a 
child  for  asking  if  Anneke  was  a  cousin  of  theirs. 

And  now  Truda  was  engaged,  and  more  aggressively 
scornful  than  ever.  For  years,  from  the  days  of  their 
meeting  at  the  infant  school,  the  bigger  girl,  two  years 
younger,  but  florid  and  healthy,  had  pinched,  bullied, 
insulted  the  weakling  creature  with  the  plaintive  eyes. 
Many  and  many  a  time  she  had  gibed  at  her  in  the  streets. 
Now  she  was  triumphant,  and,  indeed,  why  should  it 
not  be  so  ?     She  had  always  triumphed  from  the  first. 

101 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

All  success  and  comfort  and  delight  had  always  been 
hers.  She  even  drove  in  her  father's  chaise  on  week- 
days. 

As  for  being  engaged — that  is,  formally  engaged  to  be 
married — such  grandeur  unachievable  formed  no  part  of 
Anneke  Peters'  wildest  dreams.  But  certainly  she 
would  have  felt  pleased  had  she  received  those  more 
casual  attentions  which  fall  to  the  lot  of  most  country 
girls.  Nobody  ever  offered  to  keep  company  with 
Anneke  ;  nobody  suggested  a  walk,  or  stopped  for  a 
chat  by  her  window.  She  was  plain  ;  she  was  poor ; 
she  was  modest ;  people  did  not  even  feel  absolutely 
sure  that  her  father  and  mother  had  "  been  to  the 
mayor's."  Luckily  for  her,  the  chief  proof  on  her 
behalf  was  furnished  by  Pete's  persistent  denial  of  the 
fact. 

Yes,  she  would  have  liked  a  sweetheart — especially  a 
Kermesse  sweetheart — once  in  a  way  ;  a  young  man 
who  would  have  taken  her,  as  all  the  other  girls  got 
taken,  sooner  or  later,  to  the  annual  fair  at  Overstad. 
That  fair  was  the  event  of  the  year  to  all  the  peasants 
for  miles  around.  The  fair  at  Overstad,  the  splendid, 
riotous,  ruinous  fair  ;  everybody  went  there  in  couples  ; 
it  was  a  monstrosity  to  remain  away.  She  only  wanted 
to  go  one  year.  She  only  wanted  to  see,  to  have  seen, 
to  be  able  to  talk  about  the  thing  with  the  others,  who 
talked  of  it  all  through  the  year.  Her  uncle,  unwilling 
to  accompany  her,  had  always  refused  to  let  her  go 
unattended.  "  If  you  want  to  see  it,"  he  said,  "  get  a 
lover — like  the  other  girls.     Ha  !  " 

As  she  stood  before  the  cottage  door,  this  summer 
evening,  Truda  Batsy  came  by  on  her  way  to  her  own 
home,  the  tavern  two  hundred  yards  off.     Harmen  Keys 

102 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

was  with  her,  looking  bored.  Perhaps  the  two  had  been 
quarrelHng  ?  Anneke's  good  httle  human  heart  gave 
a  httle  leap  of  pleasure,  instantly  checked. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Truda,  stopping  short.  She  was  vexed 
with  her  ne'er-do-well  lover,  and  her  heart  was  full  of 
spite.  "  Anneke,  are  you  going  to  the  fair  this  year  ? 
They  say  it's  quite  unusually  fine." 

"  Perhaps,"  replied  Anneke  boldly. 

"  Really  ?     And  whom  are  you  going  with  ?  " 
'  Wouldn't  you  just  hke  to  know  ?  " 

"  I  shouldn't.  I  don't  care  tuppence  who  goes  with 
whom,  as  long  as  I  go  with  Harmen.  But  you'll  want  a 
sweetheart,  Anneke,  unless  you  take  your  Uncle  Pete." 

"  Good-night,  Truda,"  said  Anneke,  turning  away. 

"  Or  you  might  take  Beggar  Siemen.  Anneke,  if  I 
were  you,  I'd  rather  hire  a  sweetheart  than  never  go 
at  all !  "  She  passed  on  with  a  laugh,  her  lover  trailing 
in  her  wake.     Anneke  stood  looking  after  her. 

"  What  a  brute  you  are  !  "  said  Harmen,  and  twirled 
his  light  moustache. 

Truda  Batsy  laughed  again.  "  Why  shouldn't  she 
go  with  a  hired  lover  ?  "  said  Truda.  "  Better  people  'n 
she  have  done  it  a  hundred  times.  But  Uncle  Pete'd 
never  give  her  the  money  :   that's  why." 

"  You're  a  brute,"  replied  Harmen,  still  more  sulkily. 
"  It'd  almost  be  better  to  go  with  a  meek  little  brown- 
eyed  thing  like  that  than  with  such  a  vixen  as  you." 

"  Smooth  words,  please,"  said  the  girl,  angrily. 
"  Why  don't  you  go  with  her  yourself,  then  ?  Don't 
overcharge,  she  ain't  got  much.  None  but  the  lowest 
of  the  low  let  themselves  out  at  the  fair." 

"  You're  a  brute,"  he  said  again.  He  was  a  man  of 
few  ideas. 

103 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

She  turned  round  suddenly  and  struck  him  a  sounding 
slap  on  the  cheek. 

The  quondam  corporal  straightened  himself ;  a  pink 
flush  spread  round  the  red  mark  on  his  fair  skin.  "  I 
never  strike  a  woman,"  he  said,  and,  saluting,  left  her. 

Anneke  had  gone  back  into  the  house.  She  walked 
slowly,  meditating.  She  did  not  hate  the  innkeeper's 
daughter,  for  she  could  not  honestly  have  wished  her  ill, 
but  if  there  was  any  one  on  earth  she  loathed  and 
dreaded,  that  person  was  Truda  Batsy. 

"  Truda,  eh  ? — with  her  lover  ?  "  said  old  Pete.  "  I 
thought  so,  but  I  couldn't  make  sure  because  of  your 
damned  geraniums."  She  went  to  mix  her  uncle  his 
evening  glass  of  brandy  and  water — cold  from  June  to 
September,  hot  from  September  to  June  :  she  had  done 
that  nightly  now  for  half  a  dozen  years.  He  always 
grumbled  over  the  mixture,  yet  once,  on  the  single 
occasion  when  she  had  spent  a  few  days  in  bed,  he  had 
told  her,  grumbling,  that  no  one  could  prepare  it  as  well 
as  she. 

"  What  a  good-looking  man  he  is,"  pursued  old  Pete. 
"  No  wonder  that,  out  in  the  Indies,  he  could  bring  down 
sweethearts  like  cocoa-nuts  !  " 

"  Was  he  very  bad  ?  "  asked  Anneke,  with  an  innocent 
thrill. 

"  Bad  ?  What  a  fool-girl's  question  !  Is  it  bad  when 
you  potter  about  your  stupid  bit  of  a  garden,  if  you  smell 
at  the  stocks  and  wallflowers  and  things  ?  What  are 
they  for  else  ?  Though,  depend  upon  it,  he  didn't  smell 
at  wallflowers.     You're  a  wallflower,  Anneke." 

She  made  no  reply,  but  helped  him  to  bed.  He  was 
an  unpleasant  old  man,  and  this  part  of  her  daily  task 

104 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

was  especially  distasteful  to  her.  She  went  up  to  her 
own  Uttle  white  attic — every  year  she  did  the  white- 
washing herself — and  lingeringly  undressed.  "  What 
folly  !  "  she  said  at  last,  endeavouring  to  cast  off  the 
thought  which  returned  in  the  night  and  next  morning. 
After  all,  the  folly  was  possible.  Other  girls  had  com- 
mitted it. 

In  the  afternoon,  when  she  ran  out  with  a  big  tub  of 
washing-water  to  the  reedy  canal  that  creeps  along  by 
the  village,  she  saw  Truda  sitting  idle,  with  a  couple  of 
others,  under  the  big  chestnut  in  front  of  the  inn.  They 
were  laughing  heartily.  The  "  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  of 
Truda's  booby  cousin  Tony  rose  above  the  cackle  of  the 
girls.  Harmen  was  there  again  also.  "  Do  you  forgive 
me  ?  "  Truda  had  asked  that  morning,  a  little  shame- 
facedly, for  her.  "  No,"  he  had  answered,  "  let's  talk 
of  something  else." 

"  Anneke  !  "  called  Truda  across  the  blazing  sunhght. 

Anneke  turned  paler  than  usual.  "  It  is  the  sign  !  " 
she  thought.  For,  in  her  foolishness,  she  had  told  herself 
that  never  would  she  venture  to  question  Truda  about 
girls  who  had  hired  their  squires,  but  if  Truda  began, 
well,  then 

She  came  away  from  the  waterside,  with  her  tub  held 
out  before  her,  hot  from  her  work,  through  the  lazy  heat, 
to  the  shadow  of  the  chestnut  tree.  The  others  were 
cool  and  merry  ;  a  great  basket  of  cherries  stood  in  the 
middle  of  the  group. 

"  Well,  have  you  got  him  already  ? "  questioned 
Truda.  "  I  was  telling  Corry  and  Suzy  you  were  going 
to  pay  for  a  sweetheart." 

"  Will  she  advertise  for  one  ?  "  said  Corry,  who  had 
from  childhood  been  Truda's  principal  friend,  and  who 

105 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

now  was  being  courted  by  the  red-faced  farmer  lad, 
Tony. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Tnida.  "  All  she  need  do  is  to  go 
to  old  Nell  Trops  in  the  Weavers  Street  at  Overstad. 
That's  where  the  girls  apply  who  can't  get  a  lover  for 
themselves."  The  big  innkeeper's  daughter  folded  her 
fat  pink  arms,  and  looked  triumphantly  from  Anneke 
to  Harmen.  "  You  go  to  Nell  Trops  in  the  Weavers 
Street,"  she  said. 

"  It  isn't  true  !  You're  chaffing  me  !  "  said  Anneke  ; 
but  some  of  them  saw  the  flash  in  her  eyes  as  Truda 
gave  the  address. 

"  It's  true  enough,"  remarked  lumbering  Tony 
Dunder.  "  We  had  a  cow-girl  at  our  place  two  years  ago 
that  got  one  cost  her  a  florin.  A  florin  he  took,  and 
everything  free — the  shows,  and  merry-go-rounds,  and 
the  waffles." 

"  And  he  treated  her  decent  ?  "  questioned  Anneke, 
eagerly.  "  He — he  just  kept  her  company,  and  let  her 
go  home  when  she  liked  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  he  treated  her  just  as  she  wanted  him 
to,"  replied  Tony,  laughing  clumsily.  Corry  laughed 
also.  Suzy  sat  silently  eating  cherries,  and  shying  the 
stones  into  Anneke's  tub. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it !  "  cried  Anneke.  "  It's 
all  chaff  and  rubbish  !  "     The  girls  jeered  back  at  her. 

Harmen  Reys  bent  forward,  and,  taking  a  big  handful 
of  cherries,  threw  them  into  the  washing-tub.  "  Have 
some  ?  "  he  said.     "  They're  very  good." 

Anneke's  heart  was  too  full  for  any  sort  of  answer. 
She  crept  back  to  her  house  and  her  work. 

"  Do  you  know,  she  intends  to  do  it,"  announced 
Truda,  and  pursed  up  her  lips. 

io6 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  the  other  girls. 

"  I  tell  you  she  does.  And,  look  here,  we  must  have 
a  lark.  Of  course,  she  will  do  it  on  Farmers'  Thursday, 
when  all  the  countryside  is  there.  Harmen,  you  must 
go  to  Mother  Trops,  and  get  her  to  give  you  to  Anneke." 

"  What  !  "  cried  Harmen  Keys.  "  No,  thank  you  ; 
I'm  going  with  you." 

"  So  you  shall,  you  dunderhead  !  But,  first,  you  must 
fetch  the  fair  Anneke.  You  will  take  her  to  the  circus, 
and  seat  yourselves  on  one  side  ;  then  we  shall  come  in 
afterwards — a  lot  of  us — the  whole  village — and  seat 
ourselves  opposite ;  then,  presently,  you'll  think  of 
some  pretext  to  escape  and  come  over  to  the  empty 
seat  beside  me,  and  Anneke,  who's  paid  for  her 
lover " 

"  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  !  "  burst  in  Tony.  The  others  all 
shook  and  cried  out  with  laughing. 

"  What  fun  it'll  be  !  "  screamed  Truda. 

"  /  think  it's  rather  low,"  said  Harmen. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  remonstrated  Tony. 

"  No,"  retorted  Harmen,  "  I  won't  so  long  as  I 
couldn't,  anyhow,  be  as  big  a  fool  as  you." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  "  interposed  Truda.  "  Let's  think 
the  plot  out.  We  must  arrange  about  it  all  in  a  day  or 
two." 

"  It'll  keep  till  to-morrow,"  said  Harmen,  rising  and 
stretching  his  long  limbs.  "  The  cherries  are  all  eaten. 
I'm  going  home.  I've  got  something  to  do."  A  loud 
laugh  went  up  from  them  all,  for  it  was  well  known  that 
Harmen  lived  and  loafed  on  his  Indian  corporal's 
pension. 

"  I'm  coming  with  you,"  ejaculated  Tony,  stumbling 
to  his  feet. 

107 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

"  Something  to  do  means  gin,"  said  Truda,  scorn- 
fully.    "  Why  don't  you  go  in  and  drink  father's  ?  " 

"  Because  it  comes  too  expensive,"  retorted  Harmen. 

"  But  if  I  give  it  you  it  costs  you  nothing." 

"It  couldn't  be  dearer  than  when  you  give  it  me," 
said  Harmen  with  a  smirking  sneer. 

He  slung  off  with  a  jerk  of  annoyance.  She  jarred  on 
him,  especially  of  late.  He  wasn't  a  good  man  ;  he 
didn't  mind  a  bad  woman,  but  the  worst  man  wants  a 
woman  to  be  tender, 

"  Truda  isn't  the  sort  of  girl  I  should  care  to  marry," 
said  Tony,  slouching  along  beside  the  other's  army  step. 

"  Nor  is  Corry,"  replied  Harmen  sharply. 

The  bumpkin  grinned,  a  sudden  break  of  white  along 
his  crimson  face.  "  Who  talks  of  marrying  Corry  ?  " 
he  replied.  "  Marrying's  one  thing,  and  courting's 
another.  Kermesse  comes  once  in  a  year,  and  marriage 
comes  once  in  a  lifetime." 

"  Yes,"  said  Harmen  meditatively,  his  pale  eyes 
dreamy  with  reminiscence  of  a  sunny  country  where  the 
wedding  knot  is  more  easily  untied. 

"  And  she  hasn't  got  the  money  either  that  people  say 
she  has." 

"  What  ?  "  cried  the  other,  suddenly  attentive,  all  the 
dreaminess  gone  from  his  gaze. 

"  No,  she  hasn't,"  said  Tony  with  malicious  alacrity, 
"  if  everybody  knew  what  we  know  !  But  then,  luckily, 
they  don't." 

"  Tony,  let's  go  and  have  a  drink." 

"I'm  agreeable,  if  you  pay.  You  just  take  the  train 
to  Overstad  and  ask  the  registrar  of  mortgages  there  on 
whose  property  he  registered  a  mortgage  last  Thursday 
'  No,  thank  you,  not  I,'  says  father  when  Uncle  Batsy 

io8 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

come  to  him.     '  I  don't  go  lending  o'  my  money  to  chaps 
as  speculate  in  corn  !  '  " 

"  Phew  !  "  said  the  corporal  between  his  teeth. 

"  But  there's  old  Pete  Peters,  Tony :  all  his  dead 
wife's  money'll  be  Truda's  some  day." 

"  If  he  leaves  it  her.  But  he  always  says  he  is  going 
to  leave  it  to  Anneke." 

"  That  don't  prove  anything,  coming  from  such  a 
born  liar.  I  wonder  if  he's  really  free  to  leave  it  as  he 
chooses  ?  " 

"  Let's  take  him  for  a  drink,  and  make  him  tell  us  on 
his  mother's  bones  !  We  shall  find  him  under  the 
beeches  by  the  church." 

They  marched  off  in  that  direction. 

"  What's  Truda  done  to  you  ? "  asked  Harmen 
presently. 

"  Done  to  me  ?  Nothing.  What  should  she  have 
done  to  me  ?  We'll  see  whether  she  can  always  get  as 
many  Kermesse  sweethearts  as  she  chooses  !  A  lubber 
may  only  be  a  lubber,  but  he's  better  than  nothing  at 
all." 

"  I  see,"  said  Harmen,  scornfully.  "  That  was  last 
year,  I  suppose." 

They  found  old  Pete  filling  his  pipe  with  newly 
purchased  tobacco.  "  She's  a  very  good  girl,"  said 
Pete  ;  his  little  eyes  twinkled,  disappeared. 

"  I  shaU  leave  her  every  penny  I  have,"  he  said 
presently,  comfortably  ensconced  in  his  favourite 
corner,  in  his  favourite  public-house.  "  I  shall.  By 
my  sister's  grave,  I  shall."  He  saw  suitors  on  the 
horizon.  He  wanted  to  have  suitors,  that  he  might 
enjoy  dismissing  them.  The  young  men  gave  him  a 
couple  more  glasses  of  gin. 

109 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

"  I  shall  leave  her  every  penny,  every  penny,"  he  said, 
nodding  over  his  glass.  "  Yes,  I  swear  it,  every  penny. 
By  my  mother's  grave,  I  shall." 

"  Oh,  hang  your  idiotic  mother's  grave,"  said  Harmen, 
getting  up  to  go. 

Meanwhile  Anneke,  standing  over  the  washtub, 
slowly  thought  the  matter  out.  She  felt  she  could  no 
longer  bear  the  public  ignominy,  not  so  much  of  never 
having  possessed  an  accredited  sweetheart,  as  of  never 
having  found  a  swain  to  take  her  to  the  fair.  She  knew 
that  many  a  maid  in  her  position  would  have  started 
boldly  for  the  Kermesse,  and  waited  there  until  some 
honest  fellow  invited  her  to  spend  the  evening  with  him, 
as  in  more  exalted  circles  men  came  up  to  claim  a  waltz. 
But  when  she  thought  of  such  indelicacy  her  heart 
bumped.  To  hire  a  cavalier,  to  pay  honourably  for 
honourable  companionship,  that  seemed  a  very  different 
matter.  "  Nell  Trops  in  the  Weavers  Street,"  she 
repeated  to  herself.  "  Overstad  is  such  a  big  city, 
nobody  will  ever  find  out."  She  flattered  herself  that 
she  had  admirably  kept  her  own  counsel  before  her 
tormentors.  It  would  be  best  to  go  on  "  Farmers' 
Thursday,"  when  all  the  villagers,  for  miles  around, 
trooped  in  to  make  high  holiday.  On  that  day,  following 
his  invariable  custom,  Uncle  Pete  would  go  across  to 
Rotterdam  to  fetch  his  quarter's  income,  getting  back 
at  midnight  with  the  money,  sober  as  a  judge.  That  was 
his  Kermesse  treat,  he  always  used  to  say. 

Yes,  she  would  go,  and,  taking  two  tickets  for  the 
circus,  would  sit  revealed  to  all  beholders — especially 
to  the  young  folks  of  her  own  village,  most  especially 
to  Truda — revealed  as  a  girl  who  can  keep  Kermesse,  if 

IIO 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

she  chooses,  and  keep  it  with  better  men  than  those  she 
left  at  home.  Her  heart  glowed  as  she  pictured  the  hour 
of  triumph  to  herself.  For  the  twentieth  time  she 
counted  the  few  florins  in  her  purse.  She  believed  she 
had  enough. 


II 

Two  days  later,  on  the  morning  of  the  momentous 
Thursday,  Anneke,  up  betimes  from  a  sleepless  couch, 
hurried  through  her  work  as  if  she  had  not  the  whole 
long  day  before  her.  Presently  she  laid  out  her  uncle's 
rusty  Sunday  clothes  :  she  dropped  from  her  trembling 
hands  the  fuzzy  black  hat  she  was  brushing. 

"  Stupid  !  "  growled  Pete  ;  he  rarely  said  anything 
more,  but,  then,  he  was  always  saying  this.  There  were 
times  when  she  almost  regretted  her  father's  volleys  of 
oaths. 

"  I  shan't  be  back  till  midnight,"  said  Uncle  Pete. 
She  knew  that.  These  quarterly  trips  to  the  bank  were 
the  supreme  satisfaction  of  the  old  man's  life.  She 
watched  him  depart,  a  tottery  old  scarecrow  with  an 
abnormal  umbrella,  along  the  poplar-bordered  road. 

In  the  afternoon,  having  nothing  left  to  do,  she  sat 
down  to  sew  at  some  of  the  numerous  clothes  in  which 
her  soul  delighted.  It  seemed  astonishing,  to  her 
accustomed  activity,  how  slow  the  hot  hours  passed. 
She  dressed  carefully,  in  her  dark  green  gown,  and 
fastened  her  mother's  great  gold  ear-pins  into  the  snowy, 
tightly  fitting  cap.  Then,  as  seven  o'clock,  in  the  full 
glory  of  the  solemn  July  evening,  she  crept  forth,  locked 
the  cottage  door  behind  her,  and  hastened  away. 

Ill 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

The  station  was  a  mile  off,  along  open  road.  But 
Anneke,  trembling  like  a  guilty  thing  lest  the  village 
cronies  should  observe  her,  made  a  circuit  of  two  miles 
under  cover  of  brushwood,  along  ditches  and  fields. 
The  platform,  when  she  reached  it,  was  deserted.  All 
the  others  had  gone  in  the  morning,  making  a  day  of  it. 
She  had  watched  them  passing  the  window  in  excitable 
groups. 

At  Overstad  Station  there  was  plenty  of  commotion. 
The  roar  of  the  Kermesse  seemed  to  rush  out  and 
welcome  the  trains.  Over  the  whole  city  hung  an 
atmosphere  of  burning  grease  ;  in  the  distance,  about 
the  vast  Cattle  Market,  rose  a  yellow  flare  of  dirty  light 
against  the  tranquil  sunset  and  the  soUtary  evening  star. 

Anneke,  avoiding  that  quarter,  crept  round  to  the 
Weavers  Street,  and  studied  the  names  inscribed  on  the 
doors,  according  to  a  custom  very  general  in  Holland. 

The  street  was  a  side  one,  short,  uncanny  in  its  still- 
ness. Before  one  of  the  tall  houses  a  little  child  was 
playing  on  the  doorstep.     Anneke  hoped  it  would  go  in. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  and  what  are  you  doing  here  ? 
Surely  you  ought  to  be  at  the  Kermesse,"  said  a  pleasant 
voice  behind  her.  She  turned  in  alarm.  The  speaker 
was  a  tall  man,  with  a  somewhat  gruff  appearance,  and 
a  beard  that  looked  as  if  it  would  better  have  fitted 
somebody  else's  face. 

"  \yell,"  he  continued,  as  she  did  not  answer,  "  what 
do  you  say  to  going  there  with  me  ?  " 

The  idea  of  thus  accompanying  an  unknown,  un- 
recommended  person  struck  horror  into  her  breast. 
"  Oh,  no,  no,"  she  said  anxiously.  "  Please  go  away. 
I  have  come  here  to  see  a  friend."  He  fell  back,  laugh- 
ing. 

XI2 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

"  Perhaps  your  friend  lives  there  !  "  he  cried,  pointing 
to  a  Httle  house  that  hung  twisted  into  a  corner,  half 
hidden  between  two  tall  neighbours — a  little  house,  with 
a  slouching  doorway  and  a  window  that  winked.  She 
watched  him  turn  the  corner  ;  she  waited  until  he  must 
be  definitely  gone.  For  a  moment  she  desired  to  return 
to  the  station  ;  she  was  miserable,  she  was  alarmed  ; 
she  took  a  few  steps  towards  the  road.  Then  a  sort  of 
bravado  came  over  her — the  dogged  resolve  to  go 
through  with  it.  She  walked  straight  up  to  the  little 
house  and  boldly  rang  the  bell.  An  old  woman  opened 
the  door. 

"  Do  you  know  where  Nell  Trops  lives  ? "  asked 
Anneke,  faintly. 

"  Nell  Trops  lives  here,  my  pretty,"  said  the  old 
woman.     "  Come  in." 

Anneke  followed  the  creature  into  a  back  room.  Of 
procuresses,  evil  houses,  dangers  to  the  innocent,  she 
knew  nothing.  The  vices  she  had  heard  of  were  the 
vices  of  the  fields. 

"  And  what  do  you  want  of  Nell  Trops,  my  dear  ?  " 
The  old  woman  cast  a  sidelong  glance  all  over  the 
shrinking  figure ;  her  expression  grew  indifferent. 
Nothing  worth  much. 

"  I — I — I,"  stammered  Anneke,  her  pale  face  a  dusky 
red  ;   "I  had  heard — I  thought  that  here " 

"  Then  you  had  heard  wrong,"  said  the  old  woman 
sharply.  She  held  the  door  open.  There  was  a  musty 
smell  in  the  little  dingy  room. 

"  But  there  was  a  girl  from  our  village  got  one,"  cried 
Anneke,  emboldened  by  necessity. 

"  I  dare  say,"  replied  Nell  Trops,  drily.  Then, 
suddenly,  a  light  seemed  to  break  in  upon  her.  "  You 
8  irS 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

want  a  sweetheart  to  go  a-fairing  with  ?  "  she  said,  with 
a  cunning  glance. 

Anneke  hung  her  head. 

"  Is  that  all  ?  "  went  on  the  woman  briskly.  "  Quite 
right,  my  dear,  quite  right.  Yes,  this  is  the  correct 
address.  Now,  what  sort  would  you  like  to  have,  my 
dear — town  or  country  ?  Do  you  hke  'em  fair  or  dark  ? 
— and  what  are  you  going  to  pay  for  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't !  "  said  Anneke. 

"  My  charge,"  said  the  old  woman  with  precision,  "  is 
fifty  cents.     With  an  umbrella,  seventy-five." 

Anneke  hfted  her  glance.  "  Why  with  an  umbrella  ?  " 
she  asked  in  sudden  curiosity. 

"  It  has  always  been  so,"  replied  Nell  Trops,  snap- 
pishly. "  In  my  mother's  time,  and  her  mother's  before 
her.  An  umbrella  looks  respectable  ;  it  means  a  better 
class.  Every  one  knows  that ;  it's  a  recognized  fact, 
like  the  cathedral.  Nothing's  changed  but  the  prices — 
they're  lowered.  Times  are  bad  in  everything.  And  the 
girls  have  got  so  bold,  they  find  sweethearts  for  them- 
selves !  " 

"  Please,  I'll  take  an  umbrella,"  said  Anneke.  Nell 
Trops  went  out,  and  locked  the  door  behind  her — from 
habit.  The  girl  started  up  with  a  shriek.  That  dim 
consciousness  of  the  world's  evil  which  is  the  torment 
and  the  safeguard  of  every  innocent  creature  fluttered 
her  whole  heart  with  an  agony  of  fear.  "  Let  me  out !  " 
she  cried,  "  let  me  out !  " 

Instantly  the  old  hag  stood  before  her.  "  You  fool," 
said  Nell  Trops,  with  vast  scorn,  "  how  pretty  do  you 
think  you  are,  pray  ?  "  The  words,  dimly  understood, 
struck  the  girl's  heart  like  a  foul  missile,  leaving  an 
indehble  stain. 

114 


THE   FAIR-LOVER 

"  Would  you  like  a  sweetheart  with  a  nice  black 
beard  ? "  continued  Nell  more  gently,  for  her 
visitor's  expression  alarmed  her.  "  Beards  are  extra 
respectable.  You'd  have  to  pay  a  quarter  more  for  a 
beard." 

"  No,  not  a  beard,"  replied  Anneke,  suddenly  reminis- 
cent of  the  stranger  in  the  street. 

"  Well,  I  haven't  got  'em  in  boxes  like  tin  soldiers," 
said  the  woman,  put  out.  "  You  should  have  let  me 
know  this  morning,  and  you  could  have  had  half  a  dozen 
to  choose  amongst.  Beards  are  my  taste.  A  big  beard 
and  a  bald  head  for  me." 

"  Yes,  yes,  a  bald  head  !  "  exclaimed  Anneke,  who  now 
only  wanted  not  to  have  the  stranger. 

Again  the  old  woman  went  out,  this  time  without 
closing  the  door.  She  returned  immediately,  ushering 
in  the  man  from  the  street. 

"  Not — not  this  gentleman,"  was  what  Anneke  tried 
to  say.  But  she  dared  not.  And,  whilst  the  words  still 
struggled  in  her  throat — "  There  now,  my  dears,"  said 
Nell  Trops,  "  you  just  go  a-f airing  together !  A 
pretty  couple  you  make,"  said  Nell  Trops.  She  almost 
pushed  Anneke  into  the  pasasge.  "  The  florin,  my  dear, 
if  you  please.  Yes,  that's  right.  Come  and  tell  me 
to-morrow  how  much  you've  enjoyed  yourself !  "  The 
door  closed  behind  Anneke.  The  room  had  been  dark  ; 
the  street  did  not  seem  much  lighter. 

"  Now,  let's  hurry  up  and  enjoy  ourselves,"  said  the 
stranger  gruffly.  "  You'll  find  me  a  good  sort.  Good 
as  gold,  honour  bright !  " 

Somewhat  reassured,  she  walked  on  beside  him  in 
silence,  towards  the  increasing  tumult  of  the  Market. 
As  yet  this  excursion  was  not  very  enjoyable  :   she  had 

115 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

pictured    it    altogether    different.      In    fact,  she    was 
miserable. 

But  the  Cattle  Market — the  central  glory  of  the 
Kermesse — that  certainly  was  a  sight  to  be  seen.  Far 
away  it  shone  into  the  deep  blue  silence,  a  yellow  lake  of 
many  thousand  oil  lamps,  with — high  in  air,  obtrusive — 
the  white  electric  glare.  The  uninterrupted  bellow  of 
sound — bands,  singing,  yells,  cat-cries,  calls  of  salesmen 
and  showmen,  pistol-shots,  merry-go-rounds,  organs — 
formed  the  music  of  a  Pandemonium.  Between  the 
long  alleys  of  flaring  booths  and  stalls  of  every  sort 
rocked  a  crowd  of  red-faced  peasants,  many  of  them 
jumping,  husthng,  shouting — all  excited,  and  a  large 
percentage  drunk.  Uniforms  were  everywhere  in  quanti- 
ties, especially  about  the  pipe-hung  shooting  galleries  : 
men  and  women  massed  together — sombre  clothes  and 
muslin  caps  and  golden  ornaments — whirled,  insensate, 
to  the  weary  jingle  of  the  merry-go-round.  Before 
canvas  walls,  ablaze  with  kings  and  lions,  stood  acrobats 
and  actors,  gorgeously  bedizened,  hoarsely  mouthing 
their  offers  of  entertainment.  And  above  it  all,  above 
the  steam  of  the  fritter-shops,  the  sputter  of  the  fat  little 
grease  cakes  or  "  puffers,"  the  big  drums,  the  street 
songs,  the  somersaults,  the  jostlings,  the  vice  and  the 
vulgarity — above  it  all,  and  beneath  the  serenely 
solemn  sky,  ever5rwhere,  in  a  hundred  medallions  and 
paintings,  the  pure  face,  no  less  serenely  unconscious, 
of  the  little  girl-Queen  of  the  Netherlands. 

A  great  deal  of  it  came  back  to  Anneke  now  from 
memories  of  stray  visits  with  her  father  when  she  was 
quite  a  child.  But  it  was  not  at  all  as  she  had  remem- 
bered it :  it  was  noisy  and  common.  Where  possibly 
could  be  the  wild  delight  of  the  others  ?     No  wonder  n^ 

ii6 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

one  ever  cared  to  take  her.  No  wonder  they  said  she 
was  not  like  other  girls. 

There  were  plenty  of  gingerbread  stalls  in  all  direc- 
tions ;  there  was  plenty  of  gilt  on  the  gingerbread  ;  but 
to  some  people  gingerbread  is  quite  unattractive,  even 
when  all  the  gilt  is  still  on. 

"  Now,  what  would  you  like  to  see  first  ?  "  courteously 
inquired  her  companion.  "  There's  a  calf  with  two 
heads,  of  which  one  is  a  pig's,  and  there  are  some  capital 
fighting  fleas." 

"  Let's  go  to  the  circus  at  once,"  replied  Anneke. 

"  Just  as  you  Hke,  it  is  rather  late.  And  we  can  go  to 
some  of  the  shows  when  the  circus  is  over." 

They  passed  in — she  paying  for  the  tickets — and 
through  a  long,  dimly-lit  corridor  reached  their  seats. 
The  first  thing  she  noticed  on  entering  was  that  Truda 
sat  just  opposite  with  her  party,  and  that  next  to  Truda 
there  was  a  vacant  place.  Almost  simultaneously,  as 
she  turned  to  sit  down,  a  muffled  cry  escaped  her.  Her 
companion  had  lost  his  beard,  and,  with  it,  his  beetling 
eyebrows.  Handsome  Harmen  stood  laughing  behind 
her.  "  Hush,"  he  said,  "  it's  all  right.  It's  only  a 
joke  !  " 

She  had  never  seen  a  disguise  before  :  she  did  not 
know  that  beards  could  be  stuck  on.  As  for  jokes,  she 
had  small  experience  of  those  also.  They  knew,  then — 
they  would  all  know — that  she  had  come  to  Overstad  to 
hire  a  companion  !  She  sat  down  in  her  seat  and  quietly 
cried. 

"  Don't,"  he  whispered  presently,  "  the  others  will 

notice."     She  stopped  crying  at  once.     "  And,  besides, 

I  can't  bear  to  see  you  do  it.     Let's  be  pleasant  and  enjoy 

^ourselves.     Look,  they're  going  to  begin  !  "     A  couple 

^  117 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

of  clowns  came  leaping  and  laughing  into  the  ring. 
Harmen  settled  down  to  the  delights  of  the  performance. 
Anneke  tried  to  turn  her  eyes  from  the  gay  party  oppo- 
site, who  were  evidently  discussing  and  deriding  her. 
She  knew  Harmen  Keys  but  little  :  he  was  not  of  her 
village.  She  had  always  admired  him  from  a  distance  : 
he  was  dashing,  good-looking,  his  gaze  was  a  caress. 
In  these  clothes  he  appeared  different,  almost  a  gentle- 
man. She  wondered  what  he  wanted,  what  he  intended 
to  do. 

The  performance  proceeded,  and  the  people  opposite 
grew  restless.  Truda,  especially,  began  to  make  signs 
to  her  lover.  In  the  first  interval  of  ten  minutes,  when 
the  circus  half  emptied,  these  appeals  grew  obstreperous. 
Tony  came  across  and  said  something  to  Harmen.  "You 
be  hanged  !  "  was  the  audible  answer,  the  only  one  he 
got. 

Innocent  as  Anneke  might  be — and  she  remained  a 
woman,  wdth  all  womanly  instincts — she  could  not  help 
realizing  that  Truda  was  claiming  her  lover. 

"  Truda  wants  you,"  she  said  softly. 

"  Let  her  want,"  was  his  reply. 

"  But — I  think  you  ought  to  go  to  her." 

"  I  so  seldom  do  what  I  ought  to." 

"  You  might  begin  now." 

"  Do  you  know,  I  almost  think  I  am  beginning." 

"  Oh,  what  a  leap  that  horse  gave  !  " 

"  Did  it  frighten  you  ?  " 

"  No  ;  only  startled.     I'm  not  soon  afraid  of  horses.' 

"  I  thought  you  were  such  a  coward.  Truda  says 
so." 

"  P'rhaps  I  am.  I'm  afraid  of  what  wants  to  hurt 
me." 

Ii8  # 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

"  Nod  away,  Truda,  nod  away.  You  nod  back  to  her, 
little  Anneke  ;   enjoy  your  triumph  while  you  can  !  " 

"  What  triumph  ?  "  asked  Anneke. 

He  laughed  at  her.  "  Can't  you  really  guess  ?  "  he 
said. 

Yes,  she  could  guess.  She  could  see  that,  for  some 
reason  or  other,  Harmen,  remaining  beside  her — Harmen, 
the  Don  Juan  of  the  moment — openly  flouted  his  sweet- 
heart before  her  friends.  He  was  noticeably  amiable  to 
Anneke  ;  he  got  her  a  glass  of  lemonade  and  refused  to 
let  her  pay  for  it.  Other  girls  looked  up  at  him  as  he  bent 
over  her,  twirling  his  moustache.  Certainly,  for  the 
moment,  her  success  was  complete.  She  smiled  ;  she 
thought  him  delightful.  He  gave  her  his  arm  when  the 
performance  was  over ;  and,  ignoring  the  now  utterly 
annihilated  Truda,  led  out  the  lady  of  his  choice. 

They  went  into  some  of  the  shows  together,  Anneke 
selecting  a  menagerie  and  a  collection  of  stereoscopic 
views.     Harmen  yawned,  but  acquiesced. 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  we  must  go  and  eat  waffles." 
He  conducted  her  to  a  white-and-gold  pavilion,  gay  with 
the  movements  of  immaculate  cooks.  He  was  making 
for  a  cabinet  at  the  back. 

"  Not  there,  please,"  said  Anneke.  "  Here  in  front 
we  can  see  the  people  passing." 

"  But  we  want  to  be  alone,  do  we  not  ?  " 

"  No." 

A  long  silence  followed  the  answer.  They  ate  their 
waffles  among  the  smells  and  the  uproar. 

"  You're  not  the  best  of  company  to  go  Kermessing 
with,"  said  Harmen.  But  a  moment  later  he  entirely 
changed  his  tone.  He  was  very  gentle  and  sjmipathetic, 
full  of  friendly  interest.     He  told  her  how  often  he  had 

119 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

pitied  and  admired  her  ;  how  Tnida's  coarseness  had 
long  disgusted  him — he  had  never  been  actually  engaged 
to  Truda ;  how  this  evening's  ruse  had  simply  been  a 
means  of  approaching  the  better  woman,  Anneke,  just 
the  kind  and  tender  helpmate  for  a  scapegrace  anxious 
to  reform.  All  this  music  he  poured  into  her  unreluctant 
ears,  amidst  the  clash  of  cymbals  and  the  caterwaulings, 
and  the  ceaseless  "  By  your  leave  !  "  of  the  white-clad 
waiters,  who,  the  waffles  being  eaten,  now  wanted  these 
customers  to  depart.  But  the  heads  of  the  couple  bent 
lower  and  their  murmurs  grew  softer,  and  people  respect 
that  sort  of  thing  at  fairtime,  especially  the  caterers, 
who  know  it  to  be  the  corner-stone  on  which  the  whole 
erection  res  s. 

When  she  lifted  her  eyes  at  last,  there  was  a  happiness 
in  them  such  as  comes  to  no  woman  twice.  She  believed 
in  him,  purely,  implicitly. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  she  said. 

"  What,  now  ?     Why,  the  fun  is  only  just  beginning." 

"  I  want  to  go  to  the  station  " — she  detained  him. 
•'  Alone." 

An  oath  escaped  from  his  lips.  It  hurt  her,  but  not 
disagreeably.  It  reminded  her  of  the  only  man  who  had 
loved  her  before,  and  sworn  at  her. 

"  Why,  what  a  fool  you  are  !  "  he  said.  "  Come  along 
with  me,  and  we " 

"  I  am  going  to  the  station,"  she  interrupted  him. 
"  Good-night." 

She  ran  off  into  the  darkness,  thinking  of  nothing  but 
joy.  Her  triumph  of  the  evening  she  had  entirely  for- 
gotten. On  reaching  the  railway  she  asked  for  the  train. 
They  laughed  at  her  :  it  had  left  twenty  minutes  ago. 
Then  first  since  leaving  home  she  glanced  at  a  clock. 

120 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

The  only  train  now  available  did  not  stop  at  her 
village.  She  would  have  to  walk  six  miles  in  the  middle 
of  the  night.  Worse  than  that,  she  would  get  home, 
with  the  key  in  her  pocket,  an  hour  after  Uncle  Pete. 
She  dimly  wondered  whether  Harmen  had  known  about 
the  time  ?  No,  he  was  a  good  man.  She  knew  already 
that  she  would  get  to  love  him.  He  must  go  to  Uncle 
Pete,  and  obtain  the  old  man's  leave  to  court  her.  Uncle 
Pete  was  anxious  she  should  marry  :  there  would  be  no 
objection  on  his  part.  How  nobly  Harmen  had  spoken  ! 
Already  she  admired  him  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 

She  got  out  at  the  other  station  and  flew  along  the 
road.  How  glorious  was  the  stillness  around  her,  the 
mild  light  of  the  great  yellow  moon  among  the  poplars 
and  across  the  broad  fields,  where  the  cattle  occasionally 
moved.  All  about  her  was  softness,  and  sweetness,  and 
silence  :  the  roar  of  the  evening  seemed  centuries  away. 
And  Harmen  had  truthfully  told  her  he  cared  for  her ! 
Were  this  little  soul  of  ours  less  infinite  than  heaven, 
how  could  it  contain  the  whole  of  heaven  for  an  hour  ? 

As  she  approached  the  cottage,  she  saw  that  the  old 
man  was  pacing  up  and  down  in  front  of  it.  She  had 
known  that  he  would  be  there,  infuriate.  But  somehow, 
timid  as  she  usually  was,  she  had  not  found  time  to  think 
of  him. 

"  Hussy !  "  he  shouted,  as  soon  as  she  was  near 
enough.  And  then  he  used  a  yet  uglier  word.  He 
looked  a  grotesque  figure  in  the  moonlight,  with  his 
round  umbrella  and  tall  hat. 

She  hurried  to  open  the  door,  that  she  might  the 
sooner  conceal  his  shouting.  She  was  glad  when  they 
were  safe  in  the  cottage  together,  and  the  storm  of  his 
wrath  broke  loose  over  her  alone.     She  listened,  shrink- 

121 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

ing  back,  but  calmly  inattentive.  He  had  never  abused 
her  thus  before,  only  grumbled.  But  then,  she  had 
never  given  him  cause. 

"  Gad,  I  have  found  you  out !  "  he  cried,  "  with  your 
smooth  white  face  and  soft  church  manners  !  Go  your 
ways,  as  much  as  you  choose  :  only  don't  bring  the 
brats  to  me  !  " 

In  an  instant  the  brutal  words  turned  her  heart  to 
stone.  She  faced  her  uncle,  upright,  by  the  flaring  tallow 
candle.     "  I  am  sorry  I  missed  my  train,"  she  said. 

"  And  he  let  you  come  back  by  yourself  ?  "  asked  Pete, 
more  soberly,  but  with  a  sneer. 

"  I  went  alone.  I  met  Harmen  Keys.  He  was  alone 
too.     So  we  went  to  the  circus  together." 

"  Really  ?     And  that  was  all  ?  " 

"  No."  Her  voice  and  manner  again  grew  gentle. 
"  He  told  me — uncle — he  was  fond  of  me  " — very  softly. 
*'  It  seems  he  has  thought — thought  so  for  some  time. 
He  is  going  to  ask  you  about  it."  Her  head  sank  on  her 
breast. 

Old  Pete  sat  down,  and  laughed  till  he  shook. 

"  He's  been  in  a  mighty  hurry  about  it !  "  chuckled 
old  Pete.  "  Lor',  it  can't  be  more  than  three  days  ago 
that  I  told  him  about  my  money." 

Anneke  looked  up,  suddenly  anxious.  "  What  ?  " 
she  said.     "  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  He  was  mighty  inquisitive  about  my  money,  he  was. 
Who  was  I  going  to  leave  it  to  ?  I  told  him,  you  !  Lor', 
what  fools  men  are  !  I  told  him,  you  !  By  my  mother's 
grave,  I  did." 

"  Uncle  !  "  her  voice  wavered  between  gratitude  and 
distress. 

"  And  so  I  shall ;  it's  true  enough  !  Aren't  you  my 
122 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

natural,  lawful  heir  ?  Only — I  ain't  got  any  money  to 
leave,  not  a  hundred  florins,  I  ain't.  The  money  was 
your  dead  aunt's,  and  she  left  it  all  to  Truda.  The 
notary's  got  it,  in  the  city.  And  whatever  I  saved — 
though  that  ain't  much — was  to  go  to  Truda  also  ;  that 
was  what  she  made  me  agree  to,  and  sign  at  the  notary's. 
'  The  savings  is  my  money  ;  I  won't  have  it  go  to  your 
beggarly  family,'  she  says.  But  I  ain't  saved  much,  I'm 
a  poor  man,  a  poor  man,  Anneke.  And,  besides,  I  ain't 
going  to  die  yet  awhile  !  "  He  sat  gloomily  staring  at 
the  candle,  in  his  big  tattered  armchair. 

"  Lor',  what  a  lark  !  "  he  said,  brightening  up  again. 
"  He's  a  cool  chap,  that  Keys.  I  hadn't  never  meant  to 
tell  you,  till  after  I  was  dead.  But  it's  greater  fun 
telling  you  now,  and  you  deserve  it  for  letting  me  stand 
about  in  the  dark  for  two  mortal  hours.  And  me  that 
tired  !  " 

"  I  don't  beheve  it,"  she  said  bitterly.  She  had  never 
spoken  so  to  him  before.  "  Nobody  can  ever  believe 
you,"  she  went  on.  "  Nobody  does.  You  can't  have 
waited  more  than  one  hour,  for  instance.  You  always 
tell  lies." 

His  pimpled  face  grew  black  with  thunder.  He  pushed 
back  the  old  tall  hat,  and  leant  forward  on  the  umbrella. 
"  I  can  tell  truth  when  I  choose,"  he  said  slowly,  "  as 
well  as  anybody.  You'll  never  have  a  halfpenny  of 
mine,  you  slut.     All  of  it  goes  to  Truda." 

She  flung  herself  forward,  suddenly,  desperately  ;  the 
candle  streamed  against  her  cheek.  "  Swear  it  to  me," 
she  cried  hoarsely.  "  Swear  it.  Say  you  swear  it  by 
your  mother's  grave." 

"  Lor',"  he  answered,  "  have  you  found  that  out  ? 
Well,   every  man  has  his  weakness.     I'll  swear  it,  if 

123 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

you  like,  by  my  sister's  grave,  and  by  my  mother's, 
too," 

She  turned  her  back  on  him.  "  Good-night,"  she 
said,  and  went  upstairs  with  her  candle. 

The  old  man,  left  in  the  dark,  holloaed  to  her  in  vain  ; 
then,  striking  a  light  for  himself,  he  went  and  banged 
against  her  door.  He  got  no  answer.  Worn  out,  he 
stumbled  and  tumbled  into  bed,  immediately  falling 
asleep. 

Next  morning,  at  the  usual  hour,  Anneke,  with  drawn 
features  and  red-rimmed  eyes,  came  down  and  went 
about  her  work.  To  her  uncle  she  spoke  when  neces- 
sary. Frequently  she  looked  out  of  window.  Her 
geranium-pots  lay  smashed  outside — old  Pete  had  done 
that  in  his  rage  last  night,  before  the  fastened  door. 
She  cleared  up  the  mess  and  hurried  in  again.  She  was 
ashamed  to  show  her  face  outside  the  door,  until  she 
knew  how  matters  would  come  to  stand  between  her  and 
her  last  night's  lover.  She  had  always  been  a  good  girl — 
hitherto  that  had  been  her  one  satisfaction  and  solace. 

Towards  noon  Harmen  Reys  came  lounging  along  the 
canal  and  across  the  open  space  between  the  inn  and  the 
clump  of  cottages.  Anneke  laid  down  the  pan  she  was 
scouring,  and  walked  out  to  him  at  once  in  the  laughing 
summer  sunshine.  ^ 

"  Harmen  Reys,"  she  began,  ignoring  his  pleasant 
greeting,  "  first  of  all  I  want  to  tell  you  this.  What  my 
uncle  said  to  you  was  a  lie,  or  as  good  as  a  lie.  When  he 
comes  to  die,  all  his  money  will  go  to  Truda.  I  shall  not 
have  a  penny.     His  money  was  all  his  wife's." 

Harmen  Reys'  fair  face  flushed  with  swift  annoyance. 
"  Oh,  nonsense.  That  can't  be  true,"  he  said.  "  It's  a 
lie  of  the  old  man's,  Anneke."     Truda  had  come  out  of 

124 


THE    FAIR-LOVER 

the  inn,  and  advanced  halfway  towards  them.  She 
stood  irresolute — her  eyes  aflame. 

"  No,  Harmen,  it  is  true.  He  will  leave  me  what  he 
has,  but  then  he  has  nothing  to  leave  me.  I  thought  you 
ought  to  know."  Her  tones  were  wistful,  though  her 
face  was  firm.  "  I  know  it's  true.  I  am  sure.  But — 
Harmen "     She  checked  herself. 

The  handsome  corporal  slowly  lifted  his  cap,  and 
slightly  bent  his  head.  Then,  leaving  her  standing  there, 
he  walked  straight  across  to  Truda. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  extending  his  hand,  "  confess  that 
I've  paid  you  out  for  that  slap  in  the  face  you  gave  me  !  " 


125 


The  Mother 
I 

IN  the  long  grey  twdlight  of  the  chilly  autumn  evening 
the  old  woman  stood  gazing  down  the  far  descent 
of  road.  Around  her  the  inhospitable  pine-woods  sank 
into  the  distance,  darkling,  on  both  sides  of  the  desolate 
hill.  Not  a  leaf  stirred ;  the  solemn  stillness  lay 
unbroken,  but  for  the  monotonous  dripping  of  many 
thousand  trees. 

From  her  solitary  cottage  near  the  summit,  half  hidden 
behind  a  low  bank  of  firs,  a  faint  gleam  of  firelight 
deepened  across  the  approaching  dusk.  Down  the  hills 
stretched  straight  the  narrow  line  of  the  by-road,  dull 
yellow,  faintly  shiny,  pointing  its  weary,  immovable 
length  to  the  darkness,  the  village,  the  haunts  and 
bright  conversation  of  men. 

"  He's  very  late,"  said  the  old  mother  aloud.  "  I'm 
thinking  he  gets  to  be  later.  But  no  wonder,  he  likes 
a  chat  down  in  the  village  ;  why  shouldn't  he  have  it  ? 
Last  year  I  could  see  to  that  far  clump  of  firs,  where  my 
father  killed  the  fox." 

She  went  back  to  the  cottage,  stumbling  along  be- 
neath the  heavy  damp  of  the  trees.  The  supper-pot 
was  bubbling  over.  A  magpie  hung  by  the  darkening 
window.     "  All  right !  "  said  the  magpie.     "  Go  away  !  " 

"La,  Blackie,  it's  me!"  replied  his  mistress,  lifting 
126 


THE    MOTHER 

a  skinny  arm  to  light  the  lamp.  "  You  surely  don't 
want  me  to  take  myself  off  ?  I'm  thinking  you'd  lose 
the  only  companion  you  ever  had.  You  stupid,  you 
took  me  for  a  tramp  !  ' ' 

"  All  right !  "  said  the  magpie,  who  may,  or  may  not, 
have  had  recollections  of  other  companions  across  field 
and  forest,  but  who  certainly  now  would  have  known 
Widow  Quint's  step  at  any  time.  His  vocabulary  was 
limited,  like  his  list  of  acquaintances.  Of  these  latter 
he  had  two  :  the  widow,  who  loved,  the  widow's  son, 
who  ignored  him.  Likewise,  for  all  contingencies  of  his 
tiny  existence,  he  was  possessed  of  two  utterances  which 
amply  sufficed  his  philosophy — "  All  right  !  "  "Go 
away  !  " 

"  La,  it's  not  really  late  !  "  exclaimed  the  widow,  who, 
like  most  lonely  persons,  spoke  frequently  aloud.  "  'Tis 
the  days  growing  shorter  misled  me  !  "  She  stood, 
studying  the  cuckoo  clock.  "  Not  yet  five  o'clock,  and 
the  paraffin  two  cents  dearer !  But  I  always  have 
dreaded  the  boy's  being  late.  Now,  'tis  just  my  foolish 
fancy.  Yes,  Blackie,  your  mistress  is  simply  a  fool ! 
Dear,  how  often  my  John  would  say  that,  and  never 
mean  it !  Nor  he  couldn't  bear  any  one  else  to  repeat 
it ;  well  he  knew  who  it  was  had  the  clearer  head  of  the 
two  !  "  She  laughed  softly  to  herself,  a  tender  little 
pitying  laugh.  "  God  'a  mercy  on  him,"  she  said,  looking 
into  the  supper-pot.  "  The  onions  are  browning  beauti- 
ful.    Isaac'll  be  in  before  the  cuckoo  strikes  again  !  " 

"  Go  away,"  said  the  magpie. 

The  old  woman  stopped  stirring.  "  Drat  the  bird  !  " 
she  ejaculated.  "  Blackie,  you  ought  to  be  whipped,  if 
only  you  was  built  accordin'.  I  can't  think  why  the 
little  brute  never  took  to  the  boy,  and  he  the  best  boy 

127 


THE    MOTHER 

that  ever  was — ay,  or  will  be  !  No,  that's  saying  too 
much,  but  one  soon  thinks  one's  owl  an  eagle."  The 
widow  never  sought  an  explanation  in  the  fact  that  the 
boy,  being  jealous  of  his  mother's  affection,  had  not 
shown  a  liking  for  the  bird.  She  had  been  slow  to  learn, 
through  her  own  life's  experience,  that  love  is  with  most 
of  us  largely  a  matter  of  take. 

For  more  than  sixty  years  she  had  lived  in  this  lonely 
cottage  ;  she  had  been  bom  in  it,  an  only  daughter,  and 
after  her  mother's  death,  she,  then  being  fifteen,  had  taken 
the  vacant  place  by  the  taciturn  widower's  side.  When 
the  bloom  of  her  youth  had  faded  away  from  her,  the 
father,  also  dying,  left  Mary  alone  in  an  unknown  world. 
She  had  been  an  under-keeper  in  the  service  of  the  baron 
to  whom  the  woods  belonged.  A  new  man,  some  seven 
years  her  junior,  was  appointed  to  the  post  and  the  cot- 
tage ;  a  difference  of  opinion  arose  as  to  the  value  of  her 
father's  old  bureau  ;  he  proposed  that  she  should  settle 
it  by  marrying  him,  and  she  accepted  the  offer,  for  why 
should  she  do  anything  else  ? 

By  the  time  her  first  babies  were  born  she  was  nearing 
forty.  The  three  eldest  children  successively  died,  in 
infancy  or  in  early  childhood,  torn  from  a  grasp  whose 
despair  might  have  vanquished  any  power  but  Death. 
The  youngest  only  survived — Isaac. 

It  was  after  two  long  years  of  silence  that  his  feeble 
puling  once  more  seemed  to  fill  the  cottage  ;  she  never 
for  a  moment  doubted  that  this  son  of  her  decline  had 
come  to  stay. 

"  He  will  be  the  prop  of  my  old  age,"  she  said.  "  I 
shall  live  to  kiss  his  children." 

■'Our  times  are  in  God's  hand,"  said  the  minister, 
sitting  by  the  bedside,  very  solemn. 

128 


THE    MOTHER 

"  And  a  good  thing,  too,"  replied  Mary  Quint.  "  I'm 
thinking  God  remembered  that  when  He  sent  me  my 
Isaac.     I  shall  laugh  over  him  as  Sarah  did." 

"  My  good  woman,  you've  got  your  facts  wrong," 
objected  the  minister  peevishly.  He  was  hot  from  his 
long  walk,  and  he  disapproved  of  poor  people's  talking 
nonsense  or  sentiment. 

Mary  hugged  to  her  breast  one  small  fact  she  had  got 
right.     "  Please,  Domine,"  she  said  a  little  anxiously, 
"  you  won't  object  to  my  calling  him  Isaac  ?  " 
"  I  hope  it's  a  family  name,"  said  the  Domine. 
"  Oh,  it's  bound  to  be  that,"  replied  Mary.     "  'Tis  a 
name  in  your  family,  isn't  it,  John  ?  " 

"  Surely,"  assented  her  husband,  who  was  sometimes 
good-natured  and  never  over-scrupulous,  and  who  cared 
for  nothing  in  the  world  but  drink. 

"  Isaac  let  the  young  child  be  then,"  declared  the 
minister,  rising  pompously,  "  and  may  he  indeed  prove 
a  Son  of  the  Promise  !  Quint,  I'm  going.  It's  an  hour 
and  a  quarter  from  here  to  the  village." 

"  Surely,"  said  the  under-keeper  again,  rising  to 
accompany  his  rare  visitor  to  the  door,  "for  a  gentle- 
man it  would  be.  The  likes  of  me  does  it  in  fifty-five 
minutes  ;  but  what  is  the  likes  of  me  ?  " 

"  All  men  are  alike.  Quint — ahem  ! — before  God," 
replied  the  minister,  annoyed  ;  "  but  our  physical  powers 
undeniably  vary.  That  is  of  Httle  consequence,  how- 
ever, for  the  Bible  expressly  warns  us  that  bodily  exer- 
cise profiteth  nothing." 

"  Does  the  Bible  tell  such  a — thing  as  that  ?  "  cried 
the  keeper,  amazed. 

"  Certainly,"    replied   the   stodgy   little   parson,   re- 
provingly.    "  You    should    read    your    Bible,    Quint." 
9  129 


THE    MOTHER 

He  paused  just  outside  the  threshold.  "  How  old  is 
your  wife  ?  " 

"  Thirty-nine  come  next  April,  God  willing,"  replied 
the  keeper  promptly.  He  always  deducted  a  couple  of 
years  from  his  consort's  actual  age  :  he  called  this 
"  sphtting  the  difference." 

The  Domine  meditatively  shook  his  big  head. 

"  She  has  foolish  ideas,"  he  said.  "  I  fear  she  is 
rather  a  foolish  woman.  Quint." 

"  Yes,  Domine,  so  she  tells  me  herself,"  replied  the 
keeper,  "  over  and  over  again  ;  but  still  I  can  hardly 
believe  it.  There  never  was  any  one  like  her  for  cooking 
and  baking.  She's  got  no  book-learning  to  boast  of ; 
but  then,  as  I'm  always  a- telling  her,  we  can't  all  get 
clothed  and  educated  at  other  people's  expense  " — the 
Domine  winced  :  he  was  a  charity-boy.  "  Now,  what 
use  would  your  reverence,  saving  your  presence,  be  in 
a  family,  with  washin'  and  bakin'  ?  She  sees  it  at  once, 
sir.     No  use  at  all." 

"  Good-day,"  said  the  Domine.  The  keeper  went 
back  to  the  inner  room,  where  his  wife  lay.  "  John, 
come  and  look  at  little  Isaac,"  said  a  voice  from  the 
press-bed.  "  He's  got  a  dimple  in  his  chin,  John,  just 
like  what  my  father  had." 

"  You're  a  fool,"  replied  the  husband,  filling  his  pipe. 
"  You  always  was." 

Little  Isaac  grew  up,  and  his  dimple  deepened.  He 
was  an  easy-going  child,  all  good-nature  and  love  of 
tranquillity.  He  took  an  early  dislike  to  his  father's 
vehement  caresses  and  violent  abuse  :  on  the  whole,  he 
experienced  a  distinct  sensation  of  pleasure  when,  before 
his  seventh  year  had  reached  its  completion,  the  noisy, 
brawling  voice  dropped  out  of  his  existence,  and  he  was 

130 


THE    MOTHER 

left  alone  in  the  cottage  with  a  mother  whose  love  and 
whose  anger  were  both  equably  righteous  and  calm. 

The  closing  year  or  two  of  John  Quint's  poor  life  had 
been  one  black  tempest  of  drunkenness,  lighted  up  by 
fierce  flashes  of  repentance.  At  last  the  thing  happened 
which  the  wife  had  long  tremblingly  foreseen.  On  a 
dark  December  night  the  keeper  stumbled  once  too 
often.  Next  morning  they  brought  him  to  his  cottage 
shot  through  the  head.  The  widow  thanked  the  sympa- 
thetic and  the  curious  before  she  bade  them  go.  "  I'm 
not  accustomed,"  she  said,  "  to  seeing  so  many  people 
about  me.  It  confuses  me."  AU  slunk  away,  except 
the  minister. 

"  Mary,"  began  the  minister,  "  this  is  a  dreadful 
visitation." 

She  sat  by  the  fireside,  her  face  averted  from  the  bed, 
frightened,  little  Isaac  plucking  at  her  knee. 

"  Ahem  !  "  continued  the  minister,  "  it  is  a  visitation, 
and  also  a  warning  to  all  of  us  "  ("  us,"  indeed  !  he 
thought).  Unconsciously  he  fingered  the  blue  ribbon 
at  his  button-hole.  "  Alas  !  there  can  be  no  doubt  that 
your  husband  was  under  the  influence  " — mechanically 
he  bent  over  the  bedside  :  at  one  leap  the  woman  lay 
between  him  and  the  corpse  ! 

"  Tut !  tut !  "  exclaimed  the  minister,  starting  back. 
Little  Isaac,  upset  on  the  hearthstone,  began  to  cry 
shrilly.     "  Hist !  "  said  his  mother.    And  he  stopped. 

"  Why  this  futile  palliation  ?  "  cried  the  minister, 
audibly  snuffling.  "  Mary,  I  trust  you  have  not  learnt 
to  feel  sympathy  for  your  poor  husband's  failing.  Your 
life  is  too  lonely  up  here,  my  good  woman.  Well,  an 
end  will  now  soon  come  to  that.     You  will  live  in  the 

village  henceforth,  and  your  child " 

131 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Domine,  please  go  away,"  said  the  widow,  shielding 
the  dead  man  behind  her. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  if  you  wish  it,"  repHed  the  minister, 
in  high  dudgeon.  "  But,  observe,  I  shall  not  soon 
come  again.  The  distance  from  the  village  is  more  than 
an  hour  and  a  quarter,  and  if  it  had  not  been  for  John 
Bost's  meeting  me  with  his  cart " 

"  The  cart  is  waiting,"  said  the  widow  ;  "  I  hear  the 
harness  jingle." 

"  Certainly  it  is  waiting.  He  was  afraid  of  his  horse 
catching  cold  up  here.  But  I  said  I  must  speak  to  the 
widow.  What  is  the  chance — the  off-chance — of  a 
horse  catching  cold,  compared  to — to — a  human  soul  ?  " 

"  The  widow  !  "  Mary  Quint  winced  at  the  novel 
title  which  would  henceforth  always  be  hers.  But  she 
only  held  out  her  hand  to  her  son  without  stirring  from 
her  guard. 

The  Domine  departed  towards  the  door.  "  Take 
care  that  you  do  not  make  an  Ishmael  of  your  Isaac," 
he  said  with  a  suave  relish,  "  you  Hagar  in  the  desert !  " 
Thus  he  retreated  in  triumph,  eager  to  repeat  to  Petro- 
nella,  his  sister,  who  was  proud  of  him,  this  new  speci- 
men of  his  wit.  The  Domine  was  stiU  young ;  he  would 
yet  have  numerous  opportunities  of  increasing  in  foolish- 
ness. 

The  widow,  left  in  peace,  sat  gazing  at  her  dead  hus- 
band, and  gradually  a  few  tears  rolled  down  her  cheek. 
"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said  softly.  "  I — I  don't  think  it 
was  exactly  love,  John  ;  not  as  some  wives  feel ;  but 
perhaps  that  is  my  fancy.  I  think  I  did  my  best — and 
you  did  yours.  I'm  very  sorrJ^"  The  boy,  pulling  at 
her  skirts,  whined  for  "her  to  come  away.  She  followed 
him  to  the  window  ;  a  wintry  drizzle  fell  slanting  against 

132 


THE    MOTHER 

the  black  outline  of  the  firs.  "  Isaac,"  she  said,  but  she 
spoke  to  herself — "  Isaac  !  "  She  lifted  his  face  to  her 
own.  "  Isaac,  if  I'd  never  had  children,  I  don't  think 
I'd  ever  have  known  !  "  She  let  the  boy's  head  drop 
and  looked  out  into  the  rain. 

A  few  days  later,  when  the  funeral  was  over  and 
everybody  had  forgotten  her,  and  everything  went  on 
again,  she  dressed  in  her  best  mourning,  took  her  boy 
by  the  hand,  and  trudged  away  to  the  village  and  the 
great  house  beyond.  She  left  the  child  at  the  lodge  : 
then  she  faced  the  hall  door,  the  big  dog,  and  the 
butler. 

"  Quint !  "  said  the  grey-haired  Lord  of  the  Manor, 
glancing  over  his  glasses  and  joining  his  finger-tips. 
"  Yes,  of  course.  Quint !  Very  sad."  Then  he  looked 
down  at  his  writing-table,  and,  being  a  kind-hearted 
man,  reflected  what  a  bore  things  were. 

"  Yes,  it  certainly  was  very  sad,"  he  repeated,  wheel- 
ing round  to  the  figure  in  black,  "  and  also "  he 

checked  himself,  "  very  sad." 

"  Mynheer  the  Baron,  my  father  served  you  faith- 
fully," said  the  widow,  "  for  more  than  forty  years." 

"  Yes,  of  course,"  replied  the  Baron.  Then  the  in- 
congruousness  of  his  expression,  in  our  present  dispensa- 
tion, struck  home  to  him.  "  I  mean,  of  course,  I  am 
aware  of  the  fact." 

"  And  my  husband — did  his  best,"  continued  Mary 
tremulously.  "  Mynheer  the  Baron,  I  don't  mean  to 
speak  about  that,  but  I've  lived  in  the  cottage  more 
than  half  a  century  !  " 

"  Whew  !  "  said  the  Baron.  "  I  see.  'Tis  a  lonely 
cottage.     You'll  be  much  better  down  in  the  village." 

"  And  now  my  one  hope  and  prayer  is  this,  that 

133 


THE    MOTHER 

Mynheer  will  let  me  stay  on  up  there  with  the  child  ! 
I've  never  asked  any  one  anything.  I  don't  know  how 
to  speak  properly — much  less  to  Mynheer  the  Baron." 
The  widow  clasped  her  hands  in  front  of  her.  "  I've 
always  lived  alone." 

"  Seems  to  me  you  know  how  to  ask  right  enough," 
said  the  Baron  with  testy  good-humour.  "  The  cottage 
has  invariably  gone  wdth  the  place." 

"  I  could  do  a  certain  amount  of  the  work,  Mynheer, 
saving  your  presence."  Baron  Varik  laughed,  glanced 
up,  and  suddenly  steadied  his  features.  "  I  could  look 
after  the  firewood,  for  instance,  and  keep  off  children 
and  vagrants " 

"  And  catch  the  poachers,"  interrupted  the  Baron. 

"  No,"  said  the  widow  ;  and  yet,  but  for  womanly 
unobtrusiveness,  she  might  have  told  him  how  twice 
her  keen  watchfulness  had  enabled  her  muddle-headed 
husband  to  effect  an  arrest.  "  No,  I  couldn't  pretend 
to  be  aught  of  a  gamekeeper  or  claim  aught  of  a  game- 
keeper's pay." 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  must  make  some  arrangement  when 
you  leave,"  said  the  Baron  hastily.  "  A  small  pen- 
sion  "     He  paused,  unwilling  to  commit  himself, 

for  these  things  were  done  by  rule. 

"  'Tis  the  cottage  I  want  !  "  cried  the  widow,  for- 
getting all  timidity.  "  I've  been  born  there,  Mynheer 
the  Baron  :  and  there's  no  habit  grows  on  one  like 
loneliness.  And  my  boy,  that's  seven  already,  must 
grow  up  to  be  the  Baron's  keeper,  and  live  in  the  cottage 
as  the  rest  of  us  have  done  !  " 

"  Seven  !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron,  still  fretfully  smiling. 
"  He'll  take  time,  my  good  woman,  to  grow  up  !  " 

"  He'll  do  it  as  fast  as  he  can,"    replied  the  widow. 

134 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Nobody  shall  do  it  faster.     It  don't  take  long  to  grow 
up!  " 

"  Good  Lord,  no,  that's  true  !  "  exclaimed  the  Baron. 
"  It  seems  only  yesterday  I  was  a  small  boy  myself !  " 
and  he  went  into  the  next  room,  where  his  wife  was 
sitting  with  some  fancy-work  before  her. 

"  My  dear,  here  is  the  Widow  Quint,"  he  said,  "  and 
she  asks  to  be  my  under-keeper  !  "  and  then  he  told  her 
all.  "  My  father  built  the  cottage  on  purpose  for  the 
under-keeper  to  live  in,"  he  grumbled,  "  and  she  can't 
support  herself  on  the  pension,  besides." 

"  My  dear,"  said  the  Baroness,  smiling,  "  your  reason 
for  wishing  a  thing  to  be  done  is  always  that  it  has  been 
done  before." 

"  And  a  very  good  reason  too,"  retorted  her  husband. 
"  If  you  wish  her  to  have  the  cottage,  of  course  she  must 
have  it.     She  ought  to  go  down  to  the  village  and  work." 

"  Surely  I  expressed  no  opinion,"  replied  the  Baroness, 
still  smiling  over  her  work.  "  Far  less  did  I  give  advice. 
If  she  does  half  a  keeper's  work,  couldn't  she  get  half  a 
keeper's  pay  ?  " 

The  Baron  drummed  his  fingers  against  the  window- 
pane.  "  But,  then,  how  am  I  to  book  that  ?  "  he  burst 
out  at  last,  in  evident  distress.  "  The  pension  I  can 
book  as  has  always  been  done.  It  comes  under  '  III 
—The  Estate.'  " 

"  Book  it  as  treasure  laid  up  in  heaven,"  said  the 
Baroness. 

"  That  is  '  Charity— VIII,'  "  rephed  the  Baron.  "  I 
wonder  whether  my  steward  will  consider  that  correct  ?  " 

"  Before  I  married  you,"  continued  the  lady  smoothly, 
"  I  imagined  that  only  shop-people  '  booked.'  " 

"  My  dear,  do  not  let  us  return  to  that  fruitful,  and 
135 


THE    MOTHER 

fruitless,  subject  of  discussion.  I  will  do  as  you  wish 
about  the  widow,"  he  sighed.  "  She  might  at  least 
have  been  young  and  good-looking." 

"  Vrouw  Quint  ?  She  has  a  very  striking  appear- 
ance.    I  notice  her  every  Sunday  in  church." 

"  Every  Sunday  you  go,"  corrected  the  Baron,  and, 
with  that  parting  bit  of  compensation,  he  went  back  to 
Vrouw  Quint. 

"  You  can  have  the  cottage,"  he  said  quickly,  "  and 
half  your  husband's  wages,  and  the  usual  pension.  And 
you  must  do  half  your  husband's  work.  You  must 
arrange  about  that  with  the  head-keeper,  Basset." 

For  a  moment  the  widow  stood  silent.  "  I'm  a  bad 
hand  at  speaking  my  thanks,"  she  said  then,  "  but  I'm 
thinking  Mynheer  the  Baron  feels  them." 

"  Egad,  my  wife's  right,"  thought  the  Baron  ;  "  the 
woman  has  fine  eyes." 

"  Oh,  I  hope  Basset  won't  mind  !  "  exclaimed  the 
widow. 

The  Lord  of  the  Manor  bit  his  lip.  "  You  must  dis- 
tinctly understand  that  a  certain  amount  of  work  will 
be  required  of  you,  for  the  pay — you  understand  me  ? — 
must  come  out  of  the  estate." 

"  I  understand.  Mynheer  the  Baron,"  said  the  widow, 
in  the  doorway.  "  And  Isaac,  when  grown  up,  must 
make  good  all  my  deficiency." 

The  Baron  followed  her,  fearing  he  had  seemed  unkind. 
"  So  Isaac  is  to  be  trained  for  my  service  ?  "  he  said 
pleasantly. 

The  widow  stopped  under  the  hall  lamp.  "  Please 
God,"  she  said  vehemently,  all  her  gratitude  bursting 
forth,  "  he  shall  learn  to  be  such  a  servant  to  your 
honour  as  few  masters  have  had  before  !  " 

136 


THE    MOTHER 

'  Tut,  tut !  I  am  nearly  sixty-five,"  said  the  Baron. 

"  Who  knows  what  may  befal  ?  "  replied  the  widow. 
"  Was  I  not  an  old  maid  at  thirty-five  ?  And  see,  I 
am  a  widow  before  fifty !  "  She  went  back  to  the  lodge 
and  fetched  Isaac,  giving  a  penny  to  each  of  the  lodge- 
keeper's  stolidly  astonished  children.  That  night  she 
cried  over  the  boy  long  and  silently  :  he  always  remem- 
bered those  tears  as  the  last  he  saw  his  mother  shed. 

Then  the  current  of  their  lives,  unbroken  now  by 
squalls,  flowed  smoothly  onward.  But  Isaac  easily 
comprehended  that  absence  of  storm-winds  did  not 
mean  a  licence  to  drift,  and  he  opened  his  sails,  as  small 
mariners  will,  to  a  gentle,  but  consistent,  breeze.  He 
grew  up  conscious  that  he  might  do  what  he  liked  as 
long  as  he  Hked  no  wrong.  There  came  a  period,  vainly 
delayed,  when  he  must  frequent  the  far-off  village 
school.  His  mother  could  not  leave  her  forest,  where  less 
wood  was  now  stolen  (as  Basset  unwillingly  admitted) 
and  fewer  snares  were  set  than  on  any  other  part  of 
the  estate.  She  bade  the  boy  "  God- speed,"  and  ridi- 
culed his  dread  of  the  lonely  roads  ;  but  she  spent  days 
and  nights  in  anxiety  and  supplication.  Every  morning 
she  watched  his  shiny  knapsack  out  of  sight ;  every 
evening  she  toiled  to  the  turnpike  to  meet  him.  She 
loved  the  glint  of  the  knapsack,  and  polished  it  long 
after  other  children's  had  dulled  to  a  rusty  brown. 

Isaac,  with  his  good  looks  and  good  humour,  all  blue 
eyes  and  broad  dimples,  did  well  at  school,  and  wherever 
he  went.  He  preferred  not  to  exert  himself  by  nature, 
but  whatever  duty  gave  pleasure  to  his  mother  he  was 
always  prepared  to  perform.  Once  or  twice  he  was 
first  of  his  class  for  her  sake,  and  on  the  occasion  of  a 
national  festival  he  recited  a  patriotic  poem  in  the 

137 


THE    MOTHER 

courtyard  of  the  manor-house  before  all  the  school, 
half  the  manor-house  servants,  and  the  manor-house 
family  itself.  "  The  boy's  a  good  boy,"  said  the 
Baroness  graciously.  "  He  has  a  good  mother.  But 
he's  very  unlike  you  in  face,  Vrouw  Quint." 

That  night  his  elation  was  damped  by  his  mother's 
unreasonable  crossness,  a  thing  he  was  least  of  all 
accustomed  to.  He  burst  out  at  last  with  suppressed 
irritation — 

"  Why,  mother,  whatever  have  I  done  ?  " 

"  Hush  !  "  she  said.  "  Nothing,  Isaac.  You  can't 
help  it,  boy.  I  was  only  thinking.  The  Baroness  was 
right :  you  are  much  like  your  father  in  manner  as  well 
as  in  face." 

"  Is  that  what  you  are  angry  with  me  for  ?  "  he 
questioned  sullenly. 

"  God  forbid !  "  she  exclaimed  with  superfluous 
vehemence.  "  Isaac,  never  dare  to  say  anything  like 
that  again  !  " 

The  boy  shrank  back,  cowed. 

An  hour  later  she  crept  up  the  few  steps  to  his  garret. 
"  You  are  a  good  boy,"  she  said  in  the  dark.  "Oh, 
Isaac,  you  are  all  I  have  !  Promise  me  you  will  always 
be  good." 

"  I  promise,"  he  answered  under  the  bedclothes.  And 
then  she  kissed  him — an  unusual  thing — kissed  him 
through  the  sheet. 

He  was  thirteen  now,  and  school  days  were  over.  She 
got  him  taken  as  odd  boy  at  the  home  farm.  He  brought 
his  first  week's  single  florin  home  to  his  mother,  and, 
whatever  may  have  happened  before  or  after,  that  re- 
mained the  proudest  moment  of  Mary  Quint's  whole 
hfe. 

138 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Isaac,"  she  said,  "  you  are  not  a  man  yet  ;  but, 
also,  you  are  no  longer  a  child.  You  are  one  of  Myn- 
heer's servants.  Remember  this — remember  what  I 
told  you — whatever  you  do  for  Mynheer,  you  can  never 
repay  our  debt." 

"  I  intend  to  do  my  best,"  he  answered.  But  she 
caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Isaac,  my  Son  of  the  Promise,"  she  cried,  drawing 
him  towards  her,  "  I  have  toiled  night  and  day  for  this 
moment !     Isaac,  you  will  be  faithful,  will  you  not  ?  " 

He  looked  up  into  her  pallid  face.  "  Why,  yes, 
mother,"  he  said.  "  Oh,  you've  been  a  good  mother  to 
me,  mother  !     I  love  you  heart  and  soul !  " 

A  couple  of  years  later  the  steward  sent  him  to  assist 
the  widow,  and  gradually  he  took  upon  himself  all  the 
work  that  had  once  been  his  father's.  The  Baron, 
meeting  Vrouw  Quint  in  a  plantation,  informed  her, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief,  that  she  now  would  receive  only  her 
pension.  "  And  mind  you  henceforth  do  no  manner 
of  work,"  said  the  Baron,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye. 
"  I  have  no  objection  to  your  living  with  your  son  if 
you  wish.  But  should  I  catch  you  feeding  pheasants, 
I  must  send  you  away.  You  are  pensioned  as  an  under- 
keeper's  widow.  You  are  booked  as  pensioned.  Good- 
day  ! " 


II 

The  widow  sat  by  the  fireside  waiting,  as  she  waited 
every  evening  of  her  life.  Presently  Isaac  would  come 
in  from  his  work,  and  then  she  would  forget  she  had 
waited. 

139 


THE    MOTHER 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  the  widow 
looked  up  surprised. 

"  Go  away  !  "  cried  the  magpie,  for  that  was  his  rule 
after  sunset. 

The  widow  placed  her  hand  on  the  bolt,  but  the 
voices  outside  reassured  her. 

She  admitted  two  "  neighbours " — a  mile  across 
country  ! — the  big  farm-wife,  Vrouw  Brodel,  with  her 
pretty  daughter  Christine. 

"  We  are  late,"  remarked  the  farm-wife,  panting  ; 
"  one  of  our  men  should  have  met  us  at  the  village. 
Woman,  I  wonder  you're  not  afraid  to  be  murdered. 
Some  day  you  will  be.     I  am  afraid,  and  I'd  thought 

perhaps    Isaac Hold   your   tongue,    Christine ;    I 

shall  say  as  I  choose." 

Pretty  Christine  had  been  shaking  her  head  to  the 
widow.  The  latter  flashed  her  eyes  on  her.  Pretty 
Christine  looked  away. 

"  Men  murder  with  an  object,"  said  the  widow's 
grave  voice.  "  I  expect  Isaac  in  every  minute.  He 
wiU  gladly  walk  home  with  you." 

"  Oh,  no,  no,"  murmured  pretty  Christine,  with  deep 
energy.  "  Please  tell  mother,  Vrouw  Quint,  the  roads 
are  perfectly  safe  !  " 

*■  I  have  been  out  on  them  and  in  the  wood  these 
sixty-three  years,  night  and  day,"  said  the  widow, 
"  and  never  met  with  an  injury  from  man  or  from  beast." 

"  Quite  possible,"  repHed  the  farm-wife,  and  inso- 
lently jingled  her  heavy  gold  ear-rings.  "  But  /  am 
afraid.  It  seems  to  me,  widow,  your  Isaac  comes 
home    very  late  !  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  we  can't  possibly  wait  for  him  !  We  can't 
wait  for  Isaac,"  cried  pretty  Christine. 

140 


THE    MOTHER 

"  All  right.     Go  away,"  said  the  magpie. 

The  widow  lifted  her  gaze  to  Vrouw  Brodel's  red  face. 
"  Ah,  what  time,  pray,  neighbour."  she  said  coldly, 
"  do  you  deem  that  my  son  should  be  in  ?  " 

But  the  other,  vexed  to  find  herself  thwarted,  replied 
with  much  spite  :  "  At  the  time  when  all  other  men  are 
back  with  their  wives.  'Tis  not  good  for  young  blood 
to  remain  single,  neighbour  Quint." 

The  widow's  eyes  flashed.  "  Isaac  always  leaves 
work  last,"  she  said  proudly.  She  tapped  on  the  floor 
with  her  foot. 

"  It's  going  to  rain,  mother,"  interposed  the  girl's 
voice  from  the  window.  "  We  must  hurry  if  we  want 
to  get  home  !  " 

At  these  words  the  farm-wife,  who  had  on  her  best 
cream-ribboned  bonnet,  hastened  out  to  inspect  the 
black  sky. 

"  Well,"  she  said  desperately,  "  Isaac  may  not  be  here 
before  midnight !  You  should  keep  him  in  better  order. 
Catch  my  sons  not  turning  up  at  meal-times  !  Well, 
neighbour,  good-night !  " 

The  widow's  indignation  did  not  permit  her  to  answer. 
She  sat  by  the  table,  and  v.-as  angry  with  the  cuckoo 
for  his  ostentatious  proclamation  of  the  half -hour. 
"  But  the  woman  is  a  fool,"  she  said  aloud.  "  A  mother, 
and  not  to  fathom  her  own  daughter's  heart !  Aha  ! 
little  Christine,  I  found  out  your  secret  six  months  ago 
— in  one  flash  of  the  eye,  at  the  church  door,  in  passing  ! 
You  won't  cheat  this  mother,  Christine — that's  his  step !  " 

The  keeper  came  in,  accompanied  by  his  dog,  Beppo. 
He  was  a  tall  fellow,  well-built,  in  his  faded  brown 
clothes,  and  his  boyish  good  looks  suited  well  with  the 
great  leather  boots  and  the  gun. 

141 


THE    MOTHER 

"You  have  just  missed  Vrouw  Brodel,"  said  his 
mother.     "  She  was  here  not  ten  minutes  ago." 

"  Indeed !  "  said  the  son,  hanging  up  his  empty 
game-bag. 

"  But  I  suppose  you  don't  mind  about  that  ?  She 
wanted  you  to  see  her  safe  home." 

"  Another  time  I  shall  be  very  willing.  After  supper, 
if  possible." 

"  Christine  was  with  her.  Christine  is  very  pretty, 
Isaac." 

"  Yes,  mother,  but  I  couldn't  have  seen  much  of  her 
good  looks  in  the  dark.     I'm  very  hungry." 

"  Well,  supper  has  been  waiting  some  time." 

They  ate  in  silence.  Constant  seclusion  had  made 
them  a  taciturn  pair. 

Besides,  the  widow  was  screwing  up  her  devotion  to 
a  lengthily  meditated  step.  As  she  cleared  up  the 
remnants — at  a  moment  when  her  face  was  turned  away 
from  him — she  began  : 

"  You're  a  grown  man  now,  Isaac,  nearly  four-and- 
tvventy.  It's  time  you  were  marrying,  I  sometimes 
think."  Her  own  voice  startled  her,  saying  the  terrible 
words. 

He  had  risen  to  light  his  pipe.  He  stopped  in  the 
act.  "  Why,  mother,  are  you  tired  of  looking  after 
me  ?  "  he  said. 

She  did  not  answer,  but  turned.  They  stood  facing 
each  other  for  a  moment,  then,  before  he  knew  what  he 
was  doing,  he  had  thrown  his  arms  round  her  neck. 

"  Have  done,  Isaac,  have  done  !  "  cried  the  widow. 
"  For  shame  !  A  grown  man  to  be  kissing  !  You  haven't 
done  that  since  you  was  quite  a  small  boy  !  " 

The  keeper  went  back  to  the  hearth. 
142 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Nor  you  haven't  talked  of  turning  me  out,"  he  said  ; 
then  his  face  grew  long,  and  he  puffed  in  silence  at  the 
freshly  lighted  pipe.  At  last  he  said  gravely  :  "  I  don't 
intend  to  marry." 

"  Why  ?  "  exclaimed  the  widow,  anxiety  mingling 
with  exultation  in  her  accent.  And  as  he  did  not  im- 
mediately answer  :  "  Men  ought  to  marry.  Don't  think 
I'm  selfish  ;  I  should  rejoice  to  see  you  marry  a  good 
girl  like  Christine  !  " 

Isaac  drew  the  dog  towards  him,  perhaps  hardly  con- 
scious that  he  did  so.  Presently,  looking  his  mother 
full  in  the  face,  "  Would  you  really  ?  "  he  asked.  For 
a  moment  she  did  not  answer ;  then  she  simply  said, 
"  Yes."  She  sat  down  in  her  usual  arm-chair,  and 
began  at  her  interminable  knitting.     The  clock  ticked. 

"  Isaac,  how  strange  your  manner  is  !  "  she  said, 
after  a  long  silence  ;  she  was  knitting  on  very  fast. 
"  Why,  boy,  if  I  didn't  know  all  your  heart,  and  you  an 
honest  lad  from  your  earliest  youth  upward,  as  I  well 
know  you  are  and  always  will  be — why,  Isaac " 

"  Well  ?  "  he  said,  his  chin  set  firm  on  the  palm  of 
his  hand. 

"  Well !     Nothing.     If  I  didn't— but,  you  see,  I  do  !  " 

"  Mother,  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  Yes  you  do,  Isaac.  You  and  I  have  always  under- 
stood each  other,  thank  God  !  And  I  thank  Him,  too, 
that  when  your  time  comes,  there'll  be  nothing  to  pre- 
vent your  asking  an  honest  maiden  to  be  your  wife.  I 
hope  it'U  come  soon,  Isaac.  Before  God,  I  do."  She 
rose  to  quit  the  room  that  he  might  not  see  her  face. 

"  Mother  !  "  he  cried  after  her,  "  wait  a  moment.  I 
must  be  off  again  to-night." 

'  Off ! "    she    exclaimed,    in    troubled    amazement. 

143 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Why,  it's  getting  to  be  every  night,  it  is!  It  didn't 
use  to  be  so  in  your  father's  time.  I  can't  think  what 
Basset  means  by  it !  " 

"  Basset  ?  "  repeated  the  son.  "  'Tisn't  Basset.  1 
hke  to  take  a  look  round  before  turning  in." 

"  Ah,  I  told  Susan  Brodel  that  was  your  view  of 
work  !  "  said  the  widow  triumphantly. 

He  reddened  in  the  glow  of  the  fire.  She  drew  nearer 
and  began  gently  stroking  his  yellow  hair. 

"  Don't,"  he  said,  "  don't !  " 

"It  rejoices  my  heart  to  see  how  faithfully  you  serve 
your  master.  But,  Isaac,  I  can't  help  disliking  your 
being  out  thus  night  after  night.  I  lie  and  think  of 
those  long  hours  when  I  used  to  wait  for  your  father. 
And  one  morning  they  brought  him  me,  dead  !  "  She 
shuddered  ever  so  slightly. 

The  son  smoked.  Again  a  heavy  silence  sank  between 
them.  At  last  he  said  :  "  I  have  never  asked  you  be- 
fore. I  have  never  asked  any  one.  To-night  we  are 
speaking  of  many  things — strange  things.  Tell  me — 
what  made  my  father's  gun  go  off  ?  " 

She  stood  behind  him  immovable. 

"Keepers'  guns  don't,"  said  the  son,  smoking. 

"  Hush !  "  The  cuckoo  burst  out,  hooted  eight 
hideous  calls,  and  disappeared.  The  room  grew  doubly 
silent. 

"  Was  it  a  poacher  killed  him  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  he  was  drunk  !  "  Isaac  spoke  thickly.  The 
words  came  pouring  out.  "  It  was  that,  I  am  sure  of 
it.  I  have  always  known  it,  though  I  never  dared  to 
ask.  You  spoke  of  him,  mother,  so — so  tenderly.  I 
was  very  little  when  it   happened ;    nobody  told  me. 

144 


THE    MOTHER 

Somehow  I  have  always  known  it,  dreaded  it.  My 
God,  he  was  drunk  !  " 

She  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"  That  is  why  you  hate  drunkenness  so  madly !  " 
His  voice  rose  to  a  cry.  "  Now  I  understand  !  I  have 
always  understood.     My  God  !  " 

"  Hush,  Isaac.  Be  silent.  It  is  not  for  you  to  judge 
your  father.  Be  thankful  you  have  not  his  temptation. 
He  was  a  good  man.  We  all  have  our  failings.  Be 
humble,  and,  above  all,  give  thanks  !  " 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  judge  him.  I  do  not  judge  him," 
said  Isaac.  "  I,  least  of  all."  Then  for  more  than  an 
hour  they  sat  side  by  side  without  exchanging  another 
word.  Once  or  twice  the  dog,  half  rising,  licked  his 
master's  hand.  From  time  to  time,  as  the  hands  neared 
the  hour,  Isaac  glanced  up  almost  apprehensively  at 
the  clock. 

"  I  hate  that  cuckoo,"  he  said  suddenly.  And  he  went 
to  get  his  cap  and  gun. 

"  Why,  Isaac,  how  silly  you  are  !  You  said  that  the 
other  day." 

"  Well,  I  do.  One  never  knows  when  it  is  going  to 
burst  out  at  one." 

"  At  the  hour  and  the  half -hour,"  said  the  widow 
coolly.  She  picked  up  her  ball.  "  Jane,  at  the  turn- 
pike, has  one  that  calls  out  the  quarters." 

"  Well,  that  would  almost  be  better."  He  walked  to 
the  door.  "  How  you  can  endure  him  and  the  magpie 
in  the  silence  is  more  than  I  understand.  Well,  mother, 
you've  a  good  conscience.  Remember  your  promise  ; 
you  won't  sit  up.     Beppo,  look  after  your  mistress." 

The  widow  gazed  up  at  the  offending  clock,  at  the 
fast-closed  little  door,  which,  in  another  moment  or  two, 
10  145 


THE    MOTHER 

would  fly  open  with  a  bang.  "  La  !  he  couldn't  wish 
me,"  she  reflected,  "  not  to  know  what  o'clock  it  was ! 
And  how  should  I  know  he  was  near  coming  home  ? 
'Tis  my  one  comfort,  is  the  cuckoo  and  Blackie.  All 
right,  Blackie  ;  all  right  ;  all  right." 

"  Go  away  !  "  replied  Blackie,  who  hated  being  dis- 
turbed of  nights. 

Isaac  walked  on  very  fast  at  first  through  the  drip- 
drop  of  the  woods  ;  then,  presently,  he  slowed  down,  as 
a  man  who  comes  to  himself  and  realizes  that  he  is 
hurrying  nowhere.  He  paused,  struck  off  to  the  right 
with  apparent  resolve,  hesitated,  walked  on  a  few  paces, 
turned  back  again. 

"  0  God  !  "  he  said,  under  his  breath.     "  O  God  !  " 

Something  stirred  in  the  black  masses  of  underwood 
beside  him.  Some  bird,  half  aroused  from  its  sleep. 
He  went  on  through  the  dripping  darkness,  twisting 
backwards  and  forwards  with  swift  indecision,  not  as 
if  stalking  or  doubling,  but  like  an  animal  attracted  to 
one  spot,  and  as  fatally  repelled. 

A  grey  stain  showed  on  the  footpath  a  few  yards  in 
front  of  him.  It  rose,  screeching,  across  the  dense 
branches — an  owl !  For  a  space  its  shrieks  followed 
him  through  the  stillness.  Then  again  all  was  silent : 
the  cloud-masses  deepened  in  swift  changes  overhead. 

"  What  a  night  for  the  poachers !  "  he  thought. 
"  Would  to  Heaven  they  but  came  !  " 

He  was  walking  quite  fast  again,  away  into  desolate 
spaces,  the  wide  mist  of  the  heath.     He  stood  still. 

"  'Tis  no  use,"  he  said  aloud,  "  I  can't  help  it.  O 
God,  you  see  that  I  can't !  "  He  faced  round,  and 
soon  the  swiftness  of  his  steps  almost  changed  to  a  run. 

In  the  thickest  of  the  forest  he  broke  away  from  the 
146 


THE    MOTHER 

narrow  footpath  and  dodged  rapidly  amongst  the  trees. 
At  last,  pausing  for  breath,  he  halted  before  a  big  oak, 
no  more  noticeable  than  the  others  around  it.  But 
Isaac,  without  any  hesitation  now,  plunged  a  feverish 
hand  into  the  hidden  recesses  of  its  stem,  and,  drawing 
forth  a  bottle,  drank  greedily  and  long. 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said  in  a  deep  sigh  which  seemed  to  linger 
on  the  stillness.  He  walked  leisurely  now,  up  and  down, 
with  the  bottle  in  one  hand.  And  from  time  to  time  he 
took  a  slow  draught  in  the  tranquil  dark  and  the  silence, 
sometimes  with  a  half- suppressed  shudder  of  con- 
tent. 

He  was  thinking  of  his  mother's  words  about  her  dead 
husband  :  "  Your  father  was  a  good  man,  Isaac.  He 
had  his  weaknesses — who  has  not  ?  But  he  was  a  good 
man."  Never  had  he  realized  his  powerlessness  more 
deeply  than  to-night.  "  Mother,  you  would  say  the 
same  of  me.  God  grant  you  may  never  have  occasion  !  " 
He  lifted  his  handsome  face  as  if  to  the  lowering  clouds 
above  him.  "  I  can't  help  myself !  "  he  cried  aloud, 
and  then  his  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper.  "  Never," 
he  said.  "  No,  little  Christine,  I  may  be  a  coward,  but 
I'll  never  be  a  cad."  With  a  swing  of  the  arm,  he  flung 
his  gun  back  and  started  homewards.  "  Some  day  I 
shall  end  like  father,"  he  thought,  "  but  not  until  mother 
is  dead."  He  began  whistling  a  music-hall  tune  of  the 
day. 

From  a  thicket  he  had  just  passed,  whistling,  two  men 
crept  forth  and  looked  after  him. 

"  Whistle  away.  Master  Isaac,"  said  one ;  "  here's  a 
hare  you  may  whistle  f or  !  " 

"  Shut  up,  Tom,"  replied  his  elder  companion  ;  "  he's 
as  smart  a  keeper  as  ever  stepped,  and  a  very  good  fellow. 

147 


THE    MOTHER 

There's  a  hollow  oak  I've  noticed  will  do  first-rate  to 
hide  things  in.     Come  along." 

Isaac  stopped  his  whistling  long  before  he  neared  the 
cottage.  And  as  he  crossed  its  threshold  he  mechani- 
cally drew  himself  up  with  a  jerk.  In  the  dark  the  dog, 
Beppo,  struck  a  light  tail  along  the  floor. 

"  Good-night,  mother,"  said  Isaac  steadily,  before 
the  half-open  door. 

"  Good-night,  boy  ;  good-night !  " 

He  tramped  upstairs  to  his  garret. 

The  next  day  being  a  Sunday,  mother  and  son  spent 
their  morning,  according  to  an  invariable  rule,  in  the 
distant  village  church.  As  they  came  out  at  the  central 
door  the  Baron  stopped  them,  and  walked  a  few  paces 
by  the  widow's  side,  which  mark  of  favour  was  the 
highest  that  he  could  confer  on  any  of  his  humbler 
dependants.     Isaac  fell  back. 

"  If  it  weren't  for  Sunday  church,"  said  the  Baron, 
"  I  do  believe  you'd  never  come  down  to  the  village 
from  year's  end  to  year's  end.  One  would  think  you 
disliked  your  neighbours." 

"  No,  indeed.  No,  indeed,"  replied  the  widow. 
"  But,  saving  your  presence.  Mynheer  the  Baron,  if 
you'd  lived  all  your  life  in  the  backwoods,  you'd  feel 
like  a  squirrel  yourself." 

"  I  wish  I  were  half  as  frisky,"  said  the  Baron.  "  Well, 
weU,  I've  no  right  to  complain.  I'd  never  have  thought 
to  see  Isaac  my  gamekeeper." 

Still  hale  at  eighty  something,  the  Baron  walked 
almost  erect. 

"  And  a  very  good  keeper  he  makes,  I'm  told,"  said 
the  Baron  cheerfully,  nodding  his  silvery  hair. 

The  old  woman,  in  her  stiff  cap  and  gown,  smiled. 
148 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Thank  God  and  Mynheer  the  Baron,  he  is  what  he  is," 
she  answered  ;  "  and  I  wish  he  was  more.  Not  that 
I'm  complaining.  In  some  ways  'tis  hard  work — night 
after  night,  and  the  winter  nights  a-coming  !  Don't 
please  think  I'm  afraid,  Mynheer  the  Baron.  I  well 
know  every  trade  has  its  own  peculiar  dangers  ;  and 
wasn't  I  a  keeper's  daughter,  and  a  keeper's  wife  and 
mother  ? — and,  la  !  I  was  a  bit  of  a  keeper  myself ! 
Still,  I'm  glad  every  night  of  my  hfe  to  hear  my  boy's 
good-night." 

"  But  he  needn't  go  out  every  night  of  your  life," 
objected  the  Baron.  He  struck  a  little  irritably  at  a 
pebble  with  his  stick. 

Whereupon  the  widow's  serious  features  assumed 
that  air  of  tranquil  triumph  which  had  been  a  secret 
source  of  amusement  to  her  neighbours  ever  since  the 
day  when  she  had  first  led  Isaac  to  the  village  school. 

The  Baron  now  watching  her,  also  laughed  good- 
humouredly.  "  Well,  well,  Basset  says  the  hillside 
woods  are  the  best  looked  after  on  the  whole  estate." 

"They  were  that  in  my  father's  time,  were  they  not, 
Mynheer  the  Baron  ?  " 

Well,  well — perhaps  they  were.  I  have  an  idea, 
Vrouw  Quint,  you  consider  the  hillside  woods  belong  to 
you  quite  as  much  as  they  do  to  me  ?  " 

"  No,  Mynheer  the  Baron,"  replied  the  widow  gravely. 
"  But  I  know  every  stick  and  every  stone  of  them, 
and  have  done  these  fifty  years.  The  money  value  is 
yours,  sir." 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  Baron  again,  "  there's  a  pretty 
girl  waiting  to  walk  home  with  you.  Isaac  is  gone,  is 
he  ?  Or  only  lagging  behind  ?  H'm.  Good-day 
Christine  Brodel.     Good-day,  Vrouw  Quint.'* 

149 


THE    MOTHER 

"  'Tis  a  long  walk  for  a  girl  by  herself,  Christine," 
remarked  the  widow,  as  they  trudged  on  side  by  side. 

"  Father's  behind,"  replied  Christine,  "  with — with 
Isaac." 

"  Your  mother  doesn't  come  to  church  as  often  as 
she  might,"  continued  the  widow. 

"  No,  nor  Isaac  wasn't  there  last  Sunday,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  Isaac  had  some  snares  to  look  after,"  protested  the 
widow  quickly.  "  Well,  well,"  she  added  in  a  gentler 
tone,  "  your  mother's  very  stout." 

"  Yea,  and  she  don't  like  to  rob  the  old  horse  of  his 
Sunday  rest." 

"  Nor  Isaac  can't  bear  to  see  me  start  alone.  La  ! 
'  Judge  not  that  ye  be  not  judged.'  You're  right,  girl ; 
there  isn't  a  truer  text  in  the  Bible.'* 

For  some  minutes  after  that  each  was  busy  with  her 
own  thoughts  along  the  sodden  road. 

"  It  is  a  great  way,"  said  Christine.  "  Dear,  how 
you  must  tire  of  it !     But  you  were  bom  in  the  cottage, 

weren't  you  ?  and  I  suppose  you'll "    She  checked 

herself. 

"  No,  I  shan't,"  replied  the  widow  coolly.  "  When 
my  son  marries,  I  take  myself  off." 

"  Oh,  you  couldn't !  "  exclaimed  the  girl,  all  a-blush 
with  vexation.     "  His  wife  'd  never — she " 

"  Well,  she  ?  "  said  the  widow  provokingly, 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  her,"  replied  Christine 
with  some  spirit,  "  but  the  whole  country  knows  about 
you  and  your  son.  Nobody  'd  venture  to  part  you, 
Vrouw  Quint." 

"  Part !  "  repeated  the  widow,  her  eyes  far  away  over 
the  tree- tops.     "  Divide,  you  mean  ?    No  wife  could 

150 


THE    MOTHER 

do  that,  but  she  separates.  God  has  willed  it  so,  little 
Christine.  Your  father  is  calling — now,  where  is  that 
booby  of  an  Isaac  ?  Gone  altogether  ?  Disappeared  ? 
La !  what  fools  young  men  are  in  our  days  !  " 

She  trudged  on  alone  through  the  barren  autumn 
landscape,  through  the  sullen  autumn  day.  At  the 
turnpike,  where  dwelt  her  nearest  neighbour  and  friend, 
lame  old  Kate  Lonkeboor,  she  stopped  for  a  few  remarks 
about  the  weather,  then  turned  off  towards  the  hill  and 
the  woods.  She  felt  tired,  and  breathed  with  some 
difficulty ;  yet,  from  old  habit,  she  found  it  almost 
impossible  to  keep  to  the  open  road ;  before  she  had 
gone  any  distance  all  trace  of  her  was  lost  among  the 
trees. 

She  had  penetrated  into  the  heart  of  her  familiar 
woods,  when  a  low  whistle  struck  suddenly  on  her  ear. 
She  knew  the  meaning  of  that  whistle  immediately.  It 
was  a  signal.  She  darted  round  a  low  plantation  of 
brushwood,  and  almost  ran  up  against  Tom  Bunsing. 

"  D "   cried  the  poacher,   starting  back.     Two 

pheasants  hung  from  his  elbow. 

"  I  recognized  your  whistle  !  "  said  the  widow  quietly. 
But  she  gasped. 

"  D you  for  an  old  spy  !  "  said  Tom  Bunsing. 

"  I  knew  your  precious  son  was  on  t'other  side  of  the 
hill.     Oh,  on  t'other  side— ha  !  ha  !  " 

"  I  shall  report  you  to  Basset.  You  shall  be  prose- 
cuted," said  the  widow  fearlessly. 

Tom  Bunsing  laughed.  "  No  you  won't,"  he  replied 
threateningly.  "  You'll  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  your 
head.  There'll  be  more  repor tings  some  day  than  you 
bargain  for.  Give  my  love  to  your  dear  son,  my  lady, 
and  tell  him  I  shall  drink  his  health  to-night.     Ta,  ta  !  " 

151 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Oh,  the  scoundrel !  "  cried  the  widow,  trembling 
with  rage.     "  I  shall  certainly  report  you  to  Basset !  " 

She  hurried  on  home,  full  of  her  indignation.  Isaac 
was  pacing  the  small  kitchen  in  one  of  his  restless  moods. 
She  got  ready  their  mid-day  meal.  They  had  nearly 
finished  it  before  she  told  of  her  adventure  with  Tom 
Bunsing. 

"  What  did  he  say  ? "  exclaimed  Isaac,  dropping 
knife  and  fork.  "  Did  he  say  that  ?  What  did  he  say, 
mother,  about  drinking  my  health  ?  " 

"  Goodness,  Isaac,  what's  the  matter  ?  How  pale 
you  are  !  You've  got  cold,  these  wintry  days,  in  the 
woods.    After  dinner  I'll  make  you  some " 

"  No,  no  ;  I'm  all  right.  What  did  he  say  about 
drinking  my  health  ?  " 

"  Oh,  that  was  his  insolence.  I  shall  certainly  tell 
Basset." 

"  Mother,  I  do  wish  you'd  leave  the  care  of  the  woods 
to  me  !  " 

Her  thin  cheek  coloured  ever  so  faintly,  but  she  only 
called  to  the  dog.  She  could  make  nothing  of  Isaac's 
manner.  Instead  of  sitting  dozing  over  the  Sunday 
fire,  he  started  up  on  the  first  opportunity  and  hastened 
out.  The  widow  remained  pensive,  occasionally  talking 
to  Blackie,  for  Beppo,  his  dinner  over,  had  followed  his 
master. 

Presently  the  lame  turnpike-woman  looked  in  for  a 
chat,  and  from  Katey  Mary  Quint  learnt,  amid  a  flood 
of  other  gossip,  that  Tom  Bunsing  had  announced  his 
intention  of  marrying  Christine  Brodel.  For  Tom 
Bunsing,  though  he  went  poaching  from  sheer  devilry, 
was  the  son  of  a  small  but  respectable  farmer. 

"  Aha  !  I  understand  !  "  said  the  widow  to  herself. 
152 


THE    MOTHER 

Isaac,  free  from  the  torture  of  his  mother's  eyes,  tore 
through  the  quiet  woods  to  his  distant  hiding-place. 
He  reached  it  in  a  fever  of  anxiety,  and  thrust  his  hand 
down  into  the  hollow  ;  it  struck  against  the  bottles ; 
they  were  safe. 

He  laughed  aloud.  With  considerable  pains  he  had 
procured  this  store  of  spirits,  buying  it  in  the  market- 
town,  at  a  place  where  he  was  entirely  unknown,  care- 
fully conveying  it  away  and  secreting  it,  a  few  bottles 
at  a  time.  Not  a  soul  in  the  village  had  ever  seen  him 
buy  more  than  one  dram  ;  certainly  none  would  have 
thought  the  worse  of  him  for  doing  so  ;  but  his  mother's 
peace  of  mind — his  unique  preoccupation — was  safe. 
It  mattered  not,  as  he  often  most  bitterly  told  himself, 
that  some  day  he  should  become  a  notorious  drunkard, 
such  being  his  terrible,  inevitable  fate — if  only  the  grave 
had  first  closed  on  the  one  heart  that  loved  him  !  Only 
so  long,  so  long,  O  God  ! 

He  opened  one  of  the  bottles,  and  put  it  to  his  lips. 
Immediately  he  dropped  it,  spluttering.  It  contained 
nothing  but  water.  The  broken  pieces  lay  on  the 
ground.    The  dog  crept  up  and  licked  them. 

Isaac  stood  horror-stricken,  trying  to  realize  what 
this  trickery  meant.  His  secret  was  in  the  hands  of 
the  poachers. 

He  stood  for  a  long  while,  but  the  whirlwind  of  his 
thoughts  would  not  twist  itself  clear.  The  dog  pushed 
up  against  him,  whining.  He  stooped  and  patted 
it. 

Already  the  dull  November  day  was  declining.  Sud- 
denly, in  a  shiver  of  searching  wind,  one  thought  arose 
before  him,  terribly  distant.  The  night  was  coming 
— it  was  already  there — and  he  hadn't  a  drop  of  drink  ! 

153 


THE    MOTHER 

Then  the  drink- frenzy  came  upon  him — the  dread 
of  the  approaching  craving,  the  agony  of  thirst.  He 
shrieked  aloud  and  fled  straight  across  the  forest  to  the 
hill-road,  past  the  cottage,  towards  the  village,  towards 
the  tavern,  towards  relief !  The  dog  ran  panting 
beside  him. 

By  the  time  he  reached  the  nearest  houses  in  the 
twilight  the  lamps  were  coming  out.  The  long  haste, 
the  increasing  desire — these  had  strained  every  fibre 
of  his  being  till  he  moaned  as  if  in  physical  pain.  He 
hurried  along  the  deserted  street  to  the  public-house. 
At  its  door  he  stood  gasping  for  a  moment ;  then  he 
entered,  and,  steadying  his  voice — 

"  Good  evening.  Baas  Picker — a  dram  !  "  he  breathed. 

A  shout  of  laughter  arose  from  a  corner  of  the  badly-lit 
room.  Round  a  table,  in  the  half-dark,  amidst  fumes 
of  gin  and  petroleum,  half  a  dozen  choice  spirits  sat 
grouped. 

The  keeper  turned  and  faced  them  with  a  violent 
effort  at  self-control. 

"  Let  me  stand  you  a  glass,  Quint,"  cried  the  voice  of 
Tom  Bunsing. 

"  Thank  you,  I  can  pay  for  myself,"  retorted  Isaac, 
with  difficulty  suppressing  his  fury.  He  tossed  down 
the  Hquor,  and  felt  his  brain  steady  itself.  "  With 
honestly-got  money,"  he  added. 

"  You'll  want  it  to  supply  your  cellar,"  remarked 
another  voice  in  the  dusk. 

"  Hist !  "  said  an  older  man. 

Isaac  stood  by  the  bar,  yearning  to  tear  himself  away 
from  the  deepening  disgrace. 

"  Give  me  another,"  he  said.  "  'Tis  a  very  damp 
night." 

154 


THE    MOTHER 

Another  shout  of  merriment  greeted  the  words. 

"  Why,  keeper,  you're  unusually  thirsty  ?  "  said  the 
publican  with  a  meaning  smile. 

The  men  in  the  corner  sat  watching. 

"  I  say,  Quint,"  called  Tom  Bunsing,  "  friends,  you 
know — and  no  harm  meant !  But  your  mother  had 
better  keep  a  quiet  tongue  in  her  head." 

"  Hold  yours,"  said  Isaac. 

The  poacher  jumped  up  with  an  oath,  and  came  for- 
ward. 

"  One  more,"  said  Isaac,  calmly,  "  then  I'm  off." 

But  nobody  laughed  this  time.  The  men  had  gathered 
round. 

"  I  tell  you,"  began  Bunsing,  "  your  mother " 

*'Tf  you  mention  her  again  in  this  place,  I'll  knock 
you  down,"  said  the  keeper,  pushing  back  his  empty 
glass. 

The  other  laughed  defiantly,  though  he  stepped  back 
a  pace. 

"  Your  mother " 

"  Do  you  want  any  more  ?  "  questioned  Isaac,  as 
Tom  Bunsing  picked  himself  up. 

"  Look  you,  I'll  have  no  fighting  here,"  interposed 
the  publican  angrily.  "  Go  outside,  the  whole  lot  of 
you,  and,  Tom,  give  him  as  good  as  you  got !  " 

"  I'll  give  him  better — some  day,"  said  the  crestfallen 
hero,  rubbing  his  forehead. 

But  nobody  moved. 

"  You  can  find  me  whenever  you  want  to,"  retorted 
Isaac.  "  Here,  Picker,  put  me  up  a  bottle  of  gin  ! 
Here's  the  money." 

They  all  stood  watching  the  publican  at  work.  Isaac 
pushed  the  bottle  into  the  pocket  of  his  pea-jacket. 

155 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Look  here,  you  fellows,"  he  said  in  a  low,  clear 
voice,  "  I — I'm  an  honest  man.  I've  never  done  any 
of  you  an  ill-turn.  I'll  fight  any  of  you,  if  you  wish  it, 
though  I  don't  know  why.  But  no  knives."  He  ad- 
dressed himself  to  the  older  man.  "  Bost,"  he  said, 
"  make  them  see  they  must  spare  my  mother  !  Don't — 
don't  let  it  get  to  my  mother  !  It's  a  good  joke — a 
capital  joke  against  me.  But  it'll  keep.  She's  an  old 
woman," — his  voice  grew  desperate — "  don't  let  it  go 
farther  at  present !  Boys,  think  of  your  own — no,  it' 
not  the  same.  Here,  do  what  you  like  with  me,  but 
don't  let  it  get  to  her  !  " 

The  others  stood  aside,  awkward,  with  evil  grins. 
But  Jan  Bost  stepped  forward. 

"  There's  not  a  soul  in  the  country  doesn't  honour 
your  mother,  Quint.  She's  a  good  plucked  one,  and  she 
got  m.e  two  days  in  quod.  Nobody  'd  have  the  heart  or 
the  courage  to  breathe  a  word  against  you  in  her  pre- 
sence.   Here,  shake  hands,  and  go  home." 

The  keeper  retraced  his  steps  with  leaden  heart.  He 
chewed  tobacco  as  he  went  to  keep  down  the  smell  of 
the  spirits.  He  must  find  a  new  hiding-place  for  his 
treasure.  It  was  nearly  nine  when  his  mother  opened 
the  door. 

"  What  a  strange  Sunday  !  "  she  said.  "  Where  have 
you  been  ?  "  Then,  lest  her  words  should  seem  to  imply 
suspicion  or  reproach  : 

"  Don't  think  I'm  spying  on  you,  Isaac.  La !  I 
know  you're  in  love.  But  there,  I  dare  say  it's  only  my 
fancy.  She's  a  sweet  Httle  girl,  and  a  good."  She  set 
out  his  supper,  carefully  kept  hot.  "  Not  but  what  you 
ought  to  tell  me,  Isaac,"  she  added  with  simple  incon- 
sistency.    "  I'm  your  mother,  and  I've  a  right  to  be 

156 


THE    MOTHER 

told.  Sometimes  I  think  you're  afraid  to  tell  me,  for 
fear  I  should  mind  or  be  jealous.  Boy,  surely  you  know 
me  better  than  that !  " 

"  Indeed,  mother,  there's  nothing,"  he  protested, 
pretending  to  eat. 

She  posted  herself  in  front  of  him,  squaring  her  arms. 
"  So  you're  not  in  love  ?  "  she  said. 

He  had  never  lied  to  her  point-blank.  "  I  told  you 
before,  I  shall  never  marry,"  he  answered. 

She  laughed  a  happy  little  laugh.  "  They  all  say 
that,"  she  said,  "  a  week  or  two  before  the  courting. 
Very  well,  Isaac,  only  mind  one  thing.  Don't  let  her 
mother  know  it's  settled  before  I  do  !  " 

"  All  right !  "  he  answered.  "  But  if  I  promise  that 
mother,  you  must  promise  me  something  too." 

"  All  right,"  said  the  magpie. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?  "  asked  the  widow,  full  of  tranquil 
content. 

"  That  you  will  leave  Tom  Bunsing  alone." 

"  Leave  Tom  Bunsing  alone  !  "  she  repeated,  and  all 
the  brightness  went  from  her  voice.  "  Do  you  mean  to 
say  not  teU  Basset  that  I  found  him  with  two  phea- 
sants ?  " 

"  Yes." 

The  widow  rested  her  hand  on  the  table.  "  My  own 
son  ask  me  to  cheat  our  master  ?  "  she  said. 

"  No,"  said  Isaac  clumsily.  "  I'll  tell  them  I  let  him 
off  with  a  caution.  They  can't  convict  him  on  your 
story  of  the  pheasants.  Mother,  I  don't  want  to  make 
him  desperate.     I'm  afraid  of  him." 

"  Afraid  !  "  she  repeated,  with  a  clear  ring  of  scorn. 
"Afraid  of  your  rival?  Oh!  Isaac,  it's  not  that; 
forgive  me,  dear.     I  understand.     Nonsense,  he  won't 

157 


THE    MOTHER 

hurt  me,  Isaac.  Why,  none  of  them's  ever  touched  me 
all  these  years." 

"  Let  him  alone,  mother.  I'm  the  keeper.  It's  my 
business."     The  words  rang  louder  than  he  knew. 

"  Isaac,  you  never  spoke  to  me  like  that  before  !  " 
Her  quick  eyes  flashed. 

"  I  don't  want  to  speak  wrong  to  you  now.  It  isn't 
my  fault  if  you  meddle " 

"  Silence  !  "  She  waited.  "  I  am  going  to  bed,"  she 
said,  and  passed  out  of  the  room. 


Ill 

In  a  few  days  the  whole  country-side — one  solitary  soul 
excepted — had  learnt  that  the  good-looking,  respectable 
young  keeper — Quint,  old  widow  Quint's  son,  Isaac 
Quint — habitually  took  drink,  in  large  quantities.,  on  the 
sly.  Now,  the  consumption  of  strong  liquors,  though 
perhaps  hardly  a  thing  to  be  proud  of,  was  not  either  a 
subject  for  general  disapproval  or  even  remark  ;  but 
the  secrecy,  the  hoard,  and  especiaUy  the  trick  so 
successfully  played  on  "  the  hypocrite,"  all  these  com- 
bined to  heap  contempt  on  his  head.  No  one  was 
angrier  than  Picker,  the  publican,  who,  considering 
himself  cheated  of  legitimate  profit,  openly  expressed 
his  opinion  that  young  Isaac  had  stolen  the  liquor  he  so 
carefuUy  hid.  This  presiunption  the  village  rejected, 
but  it  accepted  another,  namely,  that  the  keeper,  whom 
nobody  had  ever  seen  drunk,  must  have  accustomed 
himself  to  intemperance  from  his  boyhood.  For  weeks, 
nay,  for  months,  the  detected  delinquent  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  angry  derision.     The  long-dreaded  dis- 

158 


THE    MOTHER 

covery  had  come.  He  faced  it,  content,  if  but,  on 
returning  from  his  work  in  the  evening,  he  read  the  still 
unchanged  welcome  upon  his  mother's  face. 

If  ! — there  hung  the  daily,  hourly  suspense  which  made 
his  life  an  unbroken  terror.  At  any  moment  the  blow 
might  fall.  His  thoughts  dwelt  on  it  alone  in  the  woods, 
at  work  amongst  his  comrades,  whilst  receiving  orders 
at  daybreak,  whilst  watching  through  the  silence  of  the 
night.  Even  now  perhaps,  as  he  sat  laughing  at  the 
joke  in  the  loud  tavern,  the  fatal  word  was  being  spoken 
in  the  cottage.  If  his  mother  talked  apart  with  some 
neighbour  he  trembled.  One  evening,  in  the  beginning 
of  his  torment,  she  chuckled  suddenly  over  the  little 
local  paper — Old  Gossip  the  coimtry  people  called  it. 
"  Why,  here's  a  capital  story,"  she  said.  And  she  read 
aloud,  sufficiently  altered  for  printing,  the  tale  of  "  The 
Tippler  Tricked." 

As  she  finished,  he  joined  in  her  laugh. 

"  Ha,  ha  !  very  funny  !  "  he  said. 

She  peered  over  her  spectacles.  For  one  second  his 
heart  stood  still.  "  Yes,"  she  assented,  "  and  serve  him 
right,  says  I  !  " 

With  the  tact  which  is  born  only  of  infinite  tenderness, 
he  still  studied  to  avoid  betraying  himself.  In  common 
with  so  many  for  whom  the  drink-craving  is  a  disease, 
his  body  neither  demanded  nor  easily  developed  intoxi- 
cation. He  never  came  home  the  worse  for  liquor, 
excepting  late  at  night ;  he  was  never  at  any  time  tipsy 
in  the  popular  sense.  In  spite  of  his  constantl  chewing 
tobacco,  his  mother,  of  course,  occasionally  noticed  that 
he  had  taken  a  glass  of  spirits.  She  had  never  known  a 
man  who  did  not. 

As  the  weeks  went  by,  and  the  storms  lulled  without 

159 


THE    MOTHER 

reaching  the  hill- top,  some  measure  of  tranquillity  re- 
turned to  Isaac's  breast.  After  all,  it  was  a  fact  of 
universal  experience  that  evil  rumours  but  rarely  en- 
countered the  persons  immediately  concerned.  Nobody, 
except  a  politician,  has  the  faintest  idea  what  is  said  of 
him  by  his  foes  or  his  friends.  But  for  the  scene  in  the 
tavern,  Isaac  himself  might  have  doubted  the  truth. 
His  master  had  never  mentioned  the  subject.  Only, 
once,  the  head  keeper  had  bidden  him,  with  a  sneer,  to 
look  out. 

So,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  the  widow,  in  her  stiffest  of 
garments,  walked  to  church  on  her  tall  son's  arm.  She 
noticed,  indeed,  that  people  stopped  and  stared  after 
them,  but  people,  especially  women,  had  always  done 
that.  She  smiled  to  herself.  If  she  had  met  a  young 
fellow  like  Isaac  she  also  would  have  stopped  and 
stared. 

It  was  true,  as  Jan  Bost  had  said,  that  her  neighbours 
respected  her  respectability.  Strong  provocation  would 
be  required  to  do  her  a  cruel  and  superfluous  wrong. 
The  man  who  most  appreciated  their  forbearance 
loathed  himself  for  requiring  it.  He  had  never  yet 
fought  against  the  curse  which  oppressed  him  as  he 
fought  during  those  first  weeks  while  the  whole  world 
was  mocking  him.  He  must  conquer  now.  For,  when 
the  truth  crashed  down  upon  her,  as  it  inevitably  some 
day  would,  and  she  arose,  broken-hearted,  to  reproach 
him,  then  must  he  be  able  to  answer  that  his  guilt,  if 
not  his  shame,  was  a  thing  of  the  past.  He  must  con- 
quer. For  many  weeks  he  fought  with  the  energy  of 
despair.     And,  despairing,  fell. 

Then  even  the  last  frail  hope  broke  under  him,  and 
he  let  himself  sink.     There  was  no  longer  any  reason 

1 60 


THE    MOTHER 

for  hiding  his  secret  from  any  but  his  mother.  He  went 
openly  to  buy  drink  at  the  village  tavern  ;  he  stayed  to 
consume  it  there.  It  was  pleasant  to  drink  in  company 
and  forget  the  horror  at  his  heart.  Far  better  than  to 
pace  the  woods  in  the  rainy  wmter  nights.  And  some 
of  the  chaps  at  the  tavern  were  not  half  bad  if  you  got 
to  know  them.  The  circumstances  of  his  mother's  life 
had  made  her  too  unsociable.  What  was  the  use  of 
never  quitting  the  desolate  hill,  living  like  a  weasel  or 
an  owl  ?  Tom  Bunsing  had  capital  stories — if  he 
poached,  it  was  from  sheer  love  of  danger,  a  feeling  that 
even  a  keeper  could  understand.  Isaac  had  never  borne 
malice  ;  when  Tom  stepped  up  to  him  grinning  and 
said,  "  Come,  I  owe  you  a  dram,  Quint !  "  the  poor 
fellow  accepted  the  offer  with  a  laugh  that  sounded 
bright. 

Meanwhile,  the  scandal  of  his  intemperate  habits 
having  become  a  patent  fact,  the  neighbourhood  ceased 
to  talk.  But  one  Sabbath  the  minister,  gazing  down 
from  the  pulpit  on  mother  and  son,  suddenly  made  up 
his  mind  to  "  take  measures."  The  minister  was  an  old 
man  now,  and  he  still  believed  himself  a  wise  one. 

"  Petronella,"  he  said  on  the  Monday  at  dinner  to  the 
maiden  sister  who  lived  with  him,  "  Isaac  Quint  must 
become  a  Blue  Ribbonite.  I  shall  walk  over  presently 
and  tell  his  mother  so." 

"  His  mother  ?  "  The  sister  looked  up.  "  His 
mother  ?  Remember,  James,  his  mother  doesn't 
know." 

"  Amazing  !  "  said  the  minister.  "  Yes,  of  course,  I 
am  aware  !     She  must  be  very  blind." 

"  Love  is  blind,"  replied  the  Httle  old  lady,  shaking 
her  corkscrew  curls,  "  in  her  case.  And  foreseeing,  in 
11  l6i 


THE    MOTHER 

his.    How  he  must  love  her  !     I  cannot  help  watching 
them  in  church." 

"  Fie  !  "  said  the  minister.  "  Not  during  the  sermon, 
I  hope  ?  " 

"  Could  we  but  help  them  !  "  she  continued.  "  Yes, 
we  will  go  together.     It  will  require  a  great  deal  of  care." 

"  You  !  "  exclaimed  the  minister.  "  It  would  cer- 
tainly upset  you  !     You  cannot  walk  half  so  far  !  " 

She  looked  across  at  him  and  reflected. 

"  Yes,  I  can,"  she  said.  "  Yes,  I  can.  It  is  a  fine 
afternoon.      Let  us  go." 

A  few  minutes  later  they  started  ;  the  frail  little 
spinster  held  on  bravely  along  the  straight  line  of  road. 

The  widow  was  feeding  her  pigs.  Nothing  discon- 
certed, she  asked  her  visitors  to  sit  down  while  she  went 
to  wash  her  hands. 

"  I  am  sure  you're  dead  beat,"  said  the  Domine, 
anxiously  watching  his  sister. 

"  No,  no,"  she  answered  faintly.  "  What  a  quiet 
spot  it  is !  Peace  everywhere,  even  on  the  woman's 
face." 

"  Yes,  she  must  be  very  lonely.  Here  she  comes. 
Vrouw  Quint,  I  have  called  to  speak  to  you  on  a  matter 
of  importance.  You  have  doubtless  heard  of  the  Blue 
Ribbon." 

"  No,  Domine,"  replied  the  widow  ;  "  but  there's  so 
many  advertisements  nowadays." 

"  This  isn't  an  advertisement.     It's  an  association." 

"  For  the  Queen's  birthday  ?  "  said  the  widow. 

"  By  no  means."    The  Domine  spake  with  asperity. 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  replied  the  widow  humbly.  "  I  had 
heard  something  about  a  feast  on  the  Queen's  birthday. 
It  must  have  been  something  else." 

162 


THE   MOTHER 

"  It  was,"  said  the  Domine.  "  The  Blue  Ribbon  is 
an  association  for  the  suppression  of  drink.  But  I  for- 
got. You  know  nothing  of  the  evils  caused  by  intem- 
perance." 

"  I  think  I  do,"  replied  the  widow  softly,  her  mind 
reverting  to  that  wintry  morning  when  they  had  brought 
her  husband  home. 

"  H'm  !  " — the  Domine's  sister  glanced  up  at  him. 

"  Oh,  yes,  of  course.  We  all  do.  The  curse  of  this 
country  is  the  drink-devil.  Quite  true,  Widow  Quint. 
I  am  glad  you  take  so  sensible  a  view  of  the  matter.  You 
know  what  is  meant  by  signing  the  pledge  ?  " 

■'  Promising  never  to  touch  a  drop  of  spirits  in  one's 
life."    The  widow  suppressed  a  yawn. 

"  Just  so,"  said  the  Domine,  pleased.  "  It  is  a  cause 
in  which  all  of  us  can  help.  You  must  sign  the  pledge. 
Widow  Quint !  " 

"  I  ?  "  exclaimed  the  widow  indignantly. 

"  You.     As  I  also  have  done." 

"  You  ?  Well,  Domine,  I  should  never  have  thought 
it  of  you  ;  but  I  suppose  it  began  at  college.  My  cousin 
in  Utrecht  do  say  as  the  drinking  is  dreadful  at  college. 
But,  as  for  me,  I  can't  think  what  you  mean,  Domine  ! 
I  never  touched  spirits  in  my  life  !  " 

She  rose,  her  brown  eyes  aflame. 

"  That's  the  very  sort  we  begin  with,"  said  the 
Domine  sweetly,  quite  unconscious  of  any  aspersions  on 
himself.  "  Nine-tenths  of  our  members  are  young 
ladies  of  position  who  couldn't  distinguish  madeira  from 
gin.  That's  the  very  sort  of  people  we  want.  Widow 
Quint,  to — to  set  an  example.  Now,  your  son — you 
must  employ  all  your  influence  to  make  Isaac  wear  the 
Blue  Ribbon." 

163 


THE    MOTHER 

*  Never,"  said  the  widow,  and  sat  down  again. 

The  Domine,  who  had  been  watching  for  his  sister's 
approvaJ  of  his  diplomacy,  turned  round  with  a  jump. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Domine  ?  I  can't  think  what 
you  mean,  sir  !  I  don't  know  if  any  one's  been  calum- 
niating Isaac  :  I  defy  them  to  their  face  !  " 

She  suddenly  grew  calm  again.  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don," she  said.  "  There  must  be  some  mistake.  The 
boy's  a  well-behaved  boy,  as  nobody  knows  better  than 
I.    And  nobody  can  say  that  he  drinks.     Isaac!-" 

She  ruffled  her  apron  ;   her  hands  twitched. 

"  At  least  you  cannot  pretend  that  your  son  is  a 
teetotaler,"  protested  the  Domine  with  almost  a 
sneer. 

"  No,  Domine.  Is  anybody  ?  I  never  met  anybody 
that  was.  He  takes  his  occasional  glaiss  of  spirits,  like 
all  men  ;  and  his  beer  at  meal-times,  as  I  do  La  !  to 
think  of  my  insulting  Isaac  by  saying  he  ought  to  take 
the  pledge  !  " 

"  But,  dear  Vrouw  Quint,  I  never  get  drunk,"  inter- 
posed the  Domine's  sister  mildly ;  "  yet  I  also  have 
joined  the  association.  We  do  so  to  protest  against  the 
habit  of  drinking  !  " 

"  Then  that  must  be  a  fancy  of  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
miss  ;  and  of  those  I  never  pretended  to  know  nothing. 
All  I  know  is  that  the  Domine  asks  me  to  tell  Isaac  and 
the  neighbours  that  I  think  he's  a  drunkard.  Isaac  ! 
Me  !  La  !  Domine,  please  let's  talk  of  something  else. 
Would  you  like,  miss,  to  see  my  little  brown  pig  ?  " 

The  Domine  had  been  moving  uneasily  on  his  chair. 
"  There  are  moments,  Petronella,"  he  began,  "when  we 
feel  that  silence  would  mean  participation  in  guilt.  At 
whatever  cost  to  myself  or  to  others,  as  pastor  of  this 

164 


THE    MOTHER 

parish,  it  is  my  duty  to  take  a  paramount  interest  in  the 
welfare  of  the  people " 

"  Yes,  quite  true,"  exclaimed  Petronella  in  great 
agitation,  "  and  so  let  us  look  at  the  little  brown  pig." 

"  Pig  ?  There  are  no  pigs  like  the  human.  Vrouw 
Quint,  listen  to  me  !  What  I  am  going  to  reveal  to  you 
will  cause  you  great  pain.  My  good  woman,  I  appeal 
to  your  courage,  your  Christian  resignation.  Your  son 
has  doubtless  excellent  qualities.   But  he  also  has  faults." 

At  this  moment  the  Domine,  to  hide  his  perturbation, 
paused  and  took  snuff.  Had  he  not  done  so,  the  widow's 
fate  had  been  sealed.     But  the  break  gave  her  courage. 

"  Mejuffrouw,  may  I  speak  ?  "  she  began  timidly, 
with  her  hand  to  her  fluttering  breast.  "  I  know  that 
Isaac  is  not  perfect.  Ask  him  if,  in  his  youth,  I  did  not 
punish  him  when  he  misbehaved.  I  could  speak  now 
of  his  shortcomings,  but  were  that  befitting  in  his 
mother  ?  Is  it  necessary  that  others  should  point  out 
his  vices  to  me — imaginary  or  not  ?  "  Once  more  she 
rose,  with  a  noble  gesture  of  command  and  appeal. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  let  us  go  and  see  the  little  brown 

pig  ?  " 

"  All  right,"  said  the  magpie,  who  had  listened  atten- 
tively all  through  the  interview. 

"  Yes,  let  us  go,"  assented  the  old  maid  in  a  low  voice. 
"  James,  she  is  right ;  let  us  leave  her  and  her  son  to 
the  mercy  of  God." 

"  I  sometimes  fancy,  Petronella,"  replied  the  minister 
testily,  "  you  believe  that  you  are  wiser  than  I." 

"  No,  indeed,  dear ;  no,  indeed.  A  great  deal  less 
wise.     But " 

"  But  what  ?  Well  then,  in  Heaven's  name,  let  us 
be  going  !     We've  no  time  for  sight-seeing.     You'll  be 

165 


THE    MOTHER 

ill  as  it  is,  Petronella.     I  never  ought  to  have  allowed  it. 
But  you  make  me  do  whatever  you  please." 

The  widow,  left  alone,  ran  out  for  a  breath  of  air. 
She  felt  as  if  she  should  suffocate  ;  her  heart  beat 
against  her  ribs. 

She  had  gone  farther  along  the  road  thans  he  knew, 
when  she  saw  Christine  Brodel  in  a  small  orchard,  at 
some  distance,  picking  up  apples.  She  called  out  to 
her,  and  skirting  the  wood,  ran  across. 

In  her  indignation  she  poured  out  the  story  of  the 
visit.  She  appealed  eagerly  for  sympathy  to  the  silent 
figure  beside  her. 

"  Why,  Christine,  you're  as  taciturn  as  people  say  / 
am  !  Girl,  what  would  you  have  said  if  the  Domine  had 
told  you  that  Isaac  got  drunk  ?  " 

The  farmer's  daughter  fingered  the  apples  in  her 
apron.  "  I  should  have  demanded  proof,"  she  replied 
slowly.  "  But  the  Domine  didn't  say  that — did  he  now, 
Vrouw  Quint  ?  " 

"  No,  indeed,"  replied  the  widow.  "  Well,  perhaps 
I'm  over-sensitive.  But  to  think  of  it — dear  me  !  to 
think  of  it !     It  gave  me  such  a  turn  !  " 

The  girl  peered  into  her  face.  "  You  aren't  well," 
said  Christine,  with  a  warmth  in  which  all  her  pent-up 
sympathy  bubbled  over.  "  You  should  see  the  doctor. 
You  know  you  aren't  well,  Vrouw  Quint." 

"  I'm  well  enough,  but  my  heart  isn't  as  strong  as  it 
used  to  be,  and  my  breath  is  apt  to  catch.  I  wish  Isaac 
were  safely  married.  Girl,  when  he's  not  out  in  the 
woods  at  night  he's  watching  your  window — the  young 
fool !  " 

"  Did  he  tell  you  so  ?  "  cried  Christine,  her  rosy  cheeks 
aflame. 

1 66 


THE    MOTHER 

"  Tell  me  !  No.  Trust  a  mother  to  find  out.  Good- 
bye." 

But  the  girl  held  her  back.  "  Mother,"  she  said 
earnestly,  "  you  don't  couple  our  names  like  that,  do 
you  ? — please  !  " 

Something  in  Christine's  face  struck  alarm  to  the 
widow's  heart :  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  said 
fiercely.     "  What's  wrong  ?  " 

"  Nothing,"  answered  Christine  faintly.  "  It's  all 
your  fancy.     Nothing's  wrong  :   nothing's  right." 

"  Pooh,  you  don't  understand  about  sweethearting ! 
So  much  the  better.  /  know  Isaac's  in  love.  But 
perhaps  it's  not  with  you,  child  !  Why  should  it  be  ? 
La,  la  !  "    And  the  two  women  kissed. 

Christine,  left  to  her  apples,  finished  the  last  heap  with 
laggard  steps  and  sad  eyes.  On  her  homeward  way  a 
few  tear-drops  stole  into  undue  prominence.  She  had 
just  dashed  one  back  when,  at  a  turn  of  the  lane,  she  met 
Bunsing. 

"  I  was  waiting  for  you,"  said  Tom.  "  I  saw  you  kiss 
old  Mother  Quint !  Now,  don't  look  scared.  There 
were  two  fields  between  us.  See  here,  you  don't  mean 
to  say  that  you  stick  to  that  brute  of  an  Isaac  ?  " 

"  No.  How  dare  you  speak  to  me  like  that  ?  Let 
me  pass  !  " 

"  Don't  be  silly,  Christine.  There's  as  good  fish  in  the 
sea  as  ever  drank  too  much  of  it.  You  know  as  well  as 
I  that  my  father  '11  be  only  too  glad  to  have  me  settle 
down  at  the  farm.     Give  a  fellow  a  chance  !  " 

"  Let  me  pass  !  "  she  repeated,  furiously,  "  you 

poacher,  you  !  " 

He  dropped  aside  with  an  oath  :  "  Yes,  I'm  a  poacher," 
he  said.     "  Let  your  keeper  look  out !  "     He  slunk  away, 

167 


THE    MOTHER 

leaving  her  in  a  tremble  of  diversified  feelings.  One 
thing,  however,  she  clearly  understood — she  could  never 
marry  the  man  she  loved. 

The  widow  meanwhile,  true  to  her  long-tried  precept 
that  work  in  God's  woods  was  the  best  cure  for  worry, 
had  undertaken  a  survey  of  the  preserve  which  belonged 
to  her  son's  especial  care.  She  was  longing,  yet  fearing, 
to  meet  him.  The  events  of  the  morning  had  left  a 
painful  impression  upon  her.  There  had  been  somethuig 
in  the  manner  of  those  she  had  spoken  to  which  filled  her 
with  unreasoned  alarm.  A  vague  dread  of  misfortune 
hung  heavy  in  the  air.  She  was  furiously  angry  with 
the  Domine  that  he  should  have  ventured  to  annoy  her 
— her,  John  Quint's  widow — with  his  superfluous  talk 
about  drink.  Did  she  not  nightly  thank  God  that  He 
had  answered  her  prayers,  that  Isaac  came  home  with 
steady  step  and  steadily  wished  her  "  Good-night  "  ? 

As  she  hastened  on,  walking  off  her  irritation,  her 
keen  eyes — still  so  keen  at  a  distance  ! — caught  sight  of 
a  half-effaced  footstep,  which  was  certainly  not  Isaac's. 
She  followed  the  direction  in  which  it  pointed.  It  led 
her  down  a  slope,  among  brushwood,  to  a  nearly  dry 
little  runnel,  close  by  which,  admirably  hidden,  she 
found  a  carefully  spread  net.  Her  eyes  flashed  with 
triumph.     Immediately  she  began  cutting  it  loose. 

"  Hillo  !  "  called  a  voice  from  the  other  side.  Tom 
Bunsing  rose  up  among  the  brushwood.  He  had  come 
straight  from  his  interview  with  Christine  to  look  after 
his  net.     "  You  leave  that  alone,  you  she-dragon  !  " 

"  I'm  doing  my  duty  to  the  Baron,"  intrepidly  replied 
Widow  Quint.  "  Go  home  to  your  poor  mother,  Tom 
Bunsing,  and  dry  her  tears  !  "  He  jumped  across  with- 
out answering.     In  the  scuffle  which  ensued  he  soon 

1 68 


THE    MOTHER 

gained  possession  of  the  net,  upsetting  the  old  woman 
on  the  bank.  "  I  can't  help  it,"  he  said.  "  Why  do 
you  interfere,  you  hateful  old  thing,  with  what  isn't 
your  business  ?     Do  get  away  home." 

She  picked  herself  up.  "  Keep  your  net,"  she  said 
scornfully.  "  I  don't  need  it.  I've  got  the  other,  just 
like  it ;  I  found  it  a  week  ago.  All  I  wanted  was  full 
proof  they  were  yours.  To-morrow  I  lay  the  whole  case 
before  the  head-keeper.  You'll  spend  the  next  month 
or  two  in  jail." 

Tom  Bunsing's  dark  face  turned  pale.  He  swore  a 
great  oath.  He  had  never  been  caught  before.  He  had 
never  dreamed  of  imprisonment. 

When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  quite  calm.  "  Look 
here,"  he  said,  "  I'll  go  back  with  you  to  your  cottage, 
Vrouw  Quint,  and  you'll  hand  me  over  that  net." 

"  I  shall  not,"  said  the  widow,  rising  to  depart. 

"  Then  I  shall  go  and  fetch  it.  Isaac  is  down  at  the 
village,  doing  some  work  for  the  Baron.  I  knew  he  was, 
or  I  should  not  have  come  here." 

The  widow  faced  her  antagonist  with  a  confident 
smile.  "  You  won't  find  the  net  in  the  cottage,"  she 
said  ;   "  for  'tis  hidden  in  the  woods." 

"  In  Isaac's  oak  !  "  exclaimed  Tom. 

"  What — ^what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  In  Isaac's  oak,  where  he  hides  his — oh,  hang  you, 
Vrouw  Quint !  Don't  you  hurt  my  mother,  and  I  won't 
hurt  your  son." 

"  Hurt  my  son  ?  How  can  you  hurt  Isaac  ?  What 
does  Isaac  hide  in  the  oak  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind.     Where  did  you  hide  my  net  ?  " 

"  Tom  Bunsing,  I  can't — I  can't.  What  do  you  know 
of  my  son  ?  " 

169 


THE    MOTHER 

"  No  more  than  of  my  net.  Look  here.  I'll  give  you 
until  nightfall — no,  I'll  give  you  until  eight  o'clock  If 
by  that  time  the  net  isn't  back  in  the  place  that  you  took 
it  from,  then " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  The  worse  it  will  be  for  you." 

"  Pooh  !  " 

"  And  for  Isaac." 

"  Tom  Bunsing,  what  harm  can  you  do  Isaac  ?  " 

"  Till  eight  o'clock,  mind  you — not  ten  minutes  later. 
I  won't — do  you  hear  me  ?  I  won't  go  to  prison — for  the 
sake  of  the  old  folks  at  home,  who  wouldn't  stand  it. 
Be  careful.  'Tis  ill  fighting  with  a  desperate  man."  He 
turned  and  disappeared  into  the  underwood,  without 
waiting  for  another  word. 

Vrouw  Quint  retraced  her  steps  homewards.  She  was 
very  anxious  and  very  tired.  Something,  surely,  must 
be  wrong  with  Isaac.  It  could  not  be  anything  serious. 
Still,  young  men  were  not  saints  :  she  had  never  ex- 
pected him  to  prove  perfect.  Again,  she  had  unpleasant 
visions  of  imprudent  lovemaking.  Or  could  he,  once 
in  a  way,  have  lost  money  at  cards  ?  No,  what  about 
the  oak  ?  What  had  he  hidden  from  the  others — from 
her? 

As  she  drew  nigh  to  the  cottage,  she  saw  that  a  figure 
was  standing  by  the  door.  Presently  she  recognized  the 
carrier,  John  Bost. 

"  I  have  a  message  for  you  from  Isaac,"  said  John. 
"  I  promised  to  take  it :  I  didn't  dream  you'd  be  out. 
Woman,  how  ill  you're  looking  !     Go  in  and  sit  down." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  gasped. 

"  The  Baron  and  Baroness  have  gone  to  spend  the 
day  at  Roodwell  with  the  Baron's  brother  ;    they've 

170 


THE    MOTHER 

taken  Isaac  with  them,  to  see  about  some  pigeons.  He'll 
be  back  about  eight." 

This  was  terrible  news  to  the  widow.  She  sat  think- 
ing, her  hands  clasped  tight  on  the  knobs  of  her  chair. 
"  John  Bost,  you've  got  your  cart  here,"  she  began. 
"  You  must  drive  across  to  Roodwell  with  a  note  from 
me  to  Isaac." 

"  You're  a  cool  'un  !  "  replied  John.  "  A  note  !  Is 
it  to  ask  the  Baroness  to  come  back  with  him  to  supper  ?  " 
She  looked  up  at  him,  and  his  voice  fell.  "  I  can  do  it," 
he  said ;  "  'taint  much  out  of  my  way.  But  make 
haste." 

She  went  to  her  father's  bureau,  and  laboriously  in- 
dited the  following  epistle — 

"  Dear  Isaac, — You  must  speak  to  the  Baron  and  to 
Basset  immediately.  The  thing  must  be  done  at  eight 
o'clock  to-night,  in  the  Hillside  Woods.  I  have  every- 
thing ready.  Come  home  to  supper.  Come  as  quick 
as  you  can. 

"  Your  Mother." 

She  enclosed  this  in  an  envelope  and  gave  it  to  the 
carrier.  Supposing  he  opened  the  letter  and  betrayed 
her  ?  No,  people  never  did  such  sort  of  things  outside 
the  newspapers.  Besides,  she  had  no  choice.  "  You're 
an  honest  man,  John,"  she  said,  "  I  know.  I'll  give  you 
a  five-penny  bit." 

"  Hang  your  five-penny  bit,"  replied  John,  and  walked 
out  of  the  cottage. 

She  stood  uncertain  for  a  moment,  then  she  ran  after 
him  and  called  him  back. 

"  John,  John,  listen  !  Answer  me  one  thing  before 
171 


THE    MOTHER 

you  go.  The  Domine — has  he  ever  asked  you  to  take 
the  Blue  Ribbon,  John  ?  " 

John  Bost  stared  hard  into  the  old  woman's  face. 
"  Asked  me  !  "  he  said  cheerily.  "  Dozens  of  times. 
Whom  doesn't  he  ask  ?  Why,  the  Baron  wears  one — 
and  the  Baroness  too  !  " 

"  No,  I've  never  seen  that,"  objected  the  widow. 

"  Well,  anyhow,  he's  made  them  teetotalers,"  replied 
John,  a  bit  disconcerted. 

"  Thank  you  !  Thank  you  !  "  the  widow  cried  fer- 
vently. "  Never  mind  me,  John.  See  that  Isaac  gets 
my  letter.     Good  day  !  " 

"  So  it's  that,"  said  the  carrier  to  himself,  gazing  down 
at  the  envelope.  "  Poor  old  woman,  she  don't  look 
like  living  much  longer,  but,  if  she  does,  she's  bound  to 
find  out." 

The  widow,  back  in  her  armchair,  broke  into  joyful 
and  angry  tears — tears  that  were  wrath  with  herself  for 
the  moment's  brief  doubt  of  her  boy. 

He  would  understand  her  message,  for  although  she 
rarely  referred  to  the  subject,  he  knew  that  she  was  pre- 
paring with  Basset  the  arrest  of  Tom  Bunsing,  as  soon 
as  they  had  proof  of  his  guilt.  She  admired  Isaac's 
refusal  to  take  any  steps  against  his  rival ;  it  was  like 
the  nobility  of  his  character.  But  she  must  concert 
measures  where  he  naturally  held  aloof.  The  very 
dehcacy  of  his  position  made  it  doubly  incumbent  on 
her  to  do  her  duty  to  their  master.  It  was  this  feeling 
which  had  left  her  no  rest.  "  I  won't  plot  anything 
extra  against  Tom,"  had  said  Isaac.  "  If  he  comes  in 
my  way,  the  worse  for  him."  He  added  to  himself, 
"  and  for  me." 

The  evening  began  to  fall,  and  the  widow,  having 
172 


THE    MOTHER 

peeled  her  potatoes,  sat  waiting  for  Isaac's  return  ; 
waiting,  wondering  what  was  going  to  happen,  not 
speculating  overmuch,  resolved  to  do  her  duty  to  the 
Baron,  whatever  might  befall.  The  dog,  after  unappre- 
ciated attempts  to  push  his  nose  between  her  fingers, 
had  curled  himself  to  sleep  against  her  skirt.  The  mag- 
pie occasionally  annoyed  her  with  his  futile  "  All 
right !  " 

Supper-time  crept  by  without  bringing  Isaac.  The 
cuckoo  called  the  hour  of  seven  and  half-past.  Then 
she  could  bear  the  suspense  no  longer.  She  went  out 
into  the  dark  night,  and,  exhausted  as  she  was,  began 
walking  along  the  road  to  meet  him.  Suddenly  a  dumb 
anxiety  increased  upon  her,  the  fear  of  a  catastrophe 
drawing  nigh.  She  felt  that  she  must  speak  to  some 
human  being,  hear  some  human  voice.  She  toiled  down 
to  the  turnpike  by  the  high-road  ;  she  would  hear  there 
if  any  one  had  passed. 

"  Yes,"  said  Katey,  "  the  Baron  had  driven  over  to 
Roodwell,  in  the  brougham,  with  Isaac  on  the  box, 
beside  the  coachman.  The  Baron  would  be  coming  back 
presently ;  they  never  were  late.  But  Isaac  had  re- 
turned on  foot — why,  a  couple  of  hours  ago  !  He  had 
struck  off  into  the  woods  ;  had  he  not  yet  been  home  ?  " 

"  The  woods  !  "  repeated  the  widow.  "  Katey,  had 
he  his  gun  ?  " 

"  No,  he  had  not,"  replied  the  turnpike  woman.  "  I 
particularly  noticed  that.  For  I  said  to  myself,  he 
ought  to  take  his  gun  of  nights.  Don't  we  all  know 
Tom  Bunsing  has  said  that  he'd  do  for  him." 

"  Tom  Bunsing  do  for  him  !  "  repeated  the  widow. 

"  Yes,  neighbour,  and  I  don't  hold  with  those  that 
think  you  ought  to  know  nothing  about  your  son's 

173 


THE    MOTHER 

doings,  nothing  at  all !  Some  things  there  may  be — 
but  there " 

"  What  things  ?  "  cried  the  widow.  "  There  can  be 
none." 

"  There,  there !  But  surely  you  know  Isaac  and 
Bunsing  are  both  sweet  on  Christine  ?  " 

"  I  know  nothing  for  certain  of  either." 

"  Well,  well !  Tom's  a  desperate  character,  and  I  say 
that  Isaac  had  better  be  careful." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  the  widow  ;  "  he's  gone  up  into 
the  woods  to  meet  Basset." 

"  That  he  hasn't,  for  Basset  went  by  with  two  wagons 
of  faggots,  ten  minutes  ago — to  the  village," 

The  widow  clutched  at  her  breast.  All  further  doubt 
was  impossible.  Between  Isaac  and  Tom  Bunsing 
there  existed  some  secret  link  of  shame.  Instead  of 
obeying  his  mother's  message,  the  keeper  had  gone  up 
alone,  to  warn  the  poacher  or  to  defy  him.  Even  now, 
perhaps,  they  were  contending  in  the  darkness  of  the 
forest,  her  son  and  the  man  she  had  threatened.  "  Don't 
drive  me  desperate,  I  too  have  a  mother.  Don't  drive 
me  desperate,"  Tom  Bunsing  had  said. 

"  How  late  is  it  ?  "  she  asked  wildly. 

"  Near  eight  o'clock." 

"  No,  no,  your  clock's  always  much  too  slow.  'Tis 
more  like  a  quarter  past !  " 

"  Well,"  said  the  turnpike  woman  apologetically, 
"  the  clock  certainly  ain't  particular  about  a  few  minutes 
here  nor  there.     Still,  I  don't  think " 

From  the  far  dark  of  the  woodlands  a  faint  report  of 
firearms  rang  out  clear  across  the  night. 

"  Hark,  what's  that  ?  "  exclaimed  Katey. 

But  the  widow  was  running  along  towards  the  spot 

174 


THE    MOTHER 

where  the  hill  road  branched  off  from  the  highway. 
"  Isaac  !   Isaac  !  "  she  cried  stupidly — "  Isaac  !  " 

She  stood  still,  panting  :  her  leaden  limbs  refused  to 
carry  her  farther ;  a  great  sickness  and  oppression 
weighed  upon  her  chest.  "  Isaac  !  " — the  wide  expanse 
of  her  beloved  woods  stretched  merciless  before  her, 
away  into  the  blackness  of  the  silent  winter  evening  ; 
with  a  terrible  distinctness  she  saw  him  lying  motionless, 
stretched  on  the  turf  beneath  the  ghastly  grimness  of 
the  trees. 

As  she  stood  gazing,  helplessly,  the  high  horizon 
seemed  to  lighten  :  in  another  moment  a  paleness  spread 
across  it,  then,  slowly,  a  pink  and  purple  glow.  The 
woods  above  the  cottage,  near  the  hill-top,  were  on  fire. 

Still  she  stood  gazing,  helplessly.  The  conflagration 
increased  with  solemn,  far-away  stateliness,  gradually 
spreading  and  filling  the  east.  Now,  doubtless,  the 
cottage  was  burning — the  animals !  What  had  hap- 
pened ?     What  had  happened  to  her  son  ? 

She  sank  on  her  knees.  "  0  God  !  "  she  screamed — 
"  O  God  !     O  God  !  " 

A  carriage  was  coming  along  the  high  road  at  a  furious 
pace.  She  lifted  herself  up.  The  Baron,  hurrying  home. 
For  an  instant  the  thought  flashed  across  her  dizzy  brain 
that  blind  old  Katey  might  possibly  have  been  mis- 
taken !  Perhaps  she  should  see  Isaac  sitting  safe  beside 
the  coachman  !  "  Stop,"  she  cried,  running  to  meet  the 
horses — "  stop  !  " 

The  coachman,  alone  on  the  box,  drew  up  with  a  pull. 
Amidst  the  clatter  of  the  horses  and  the  harness,  the 
Baron's  voice  was  heard  at  the  window.  "  Oh,  Myn- 
heer the  Baron  ! — the  forest — Isaac — Isaac — the  cot- 
tage  "  was  all  that  the  widow  could  articulate. 

175 


THE  MOTHER 

"  How  ?  Isaac  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Baroness.  The 
Baron  opened  the  carriage  door.  "  Come  in  here, 
Widow  Quint,"  he  said  ;  "  there  is  room  on  the  Uttle 
seat.  Quick  we've  no  time  to  lose.  We  are  hastening 
to  the  village  for  help  !  " 

As  the  carriage  flew  on  through  the  darkness,  the 
widow,  growing  gradually  somewhat  calmer,  found 
breath  enough  to  gasp  out  her  suspicions  and  her  fears. 
In  broken  accents  she  told  of  Tom  Bunsing's  miscon- 
duct and  his  threats.  "  And  if  harm  has  befallen  Isaac 
— as  surely  it  has — the  fault,  Mynheer  the  Baron,  is 
mine  !  " 

She  burst  out  weeping.  The  old  couple  had  listened 
in  anxious  sympathy. 

"  Yes,  weep,"  said  the  Baroness,  gently,  taking  the 
widow's  hand. 

"  Fault  ?  "  repeated  the  old  man.  "  Nay,  that  is  not 
the  word.  You  have  acted  nobly,  in  accordance  with 
your  whole  righteous  life."  Both  of  them  silently  ad- 
mitted that  her  fear  was  well-founded.  It  would  not 
be  the  first  time,  nor  the  second,  that  woods  had  been 
fired  to  conceal  a  poacher's  crime. 

The  Baron  sighed.  "  Nothing  is  certain  yet,"  he 
said.  "  Isaac  has  always  been  an  admirable  son  to  you  ; 
no  wonder  you  are  anxious  about  him.  But  he  is  pro- 
bably alive  and  well !  " 

"  Oh,  Mynheer — oh,  Mevrouw,  he  is  all  in  all  to  me," 
said  the  widow.  "  Since  the  day  of  his  birth  he  has 
been  my  daily  glory  !  Never  mother  had  a  nobler 
son  !  " 

"  Well,  we  shall  know  in  another  minute,"  said  the 
Baron. 

The  carriage  was  rattling  along  the  village  street. 
176 


THE   MOTHER 

The  street  was  full  of  hurry  and  voices.  Suddenly  the 
horses  stopped. 

"  There  is  Basset,"  cried  the  Baron.  "  Hi !  Basset — 
how  about  Isaac  Quint  ?     Is  he  safe  ?  " 

"  Safe  enough  !  "  came  the  keeper's  excited  reply. 
"  No  fear  of  his  being  up  in  the  woods,  Mynheer  the 
Baron  !  The  drunken  sot's  here  in  the  tavern — too 
drunk  to  move  !  " 

With  a  shriek  which  rang  over  the  rumbling  of  the 
fire-engine,  the  widow  sprang  out  of  the  shelter  of  the 
carriage. 

"  Mynheer  the  Baron,  he  lies — he  lies !  "  she  cried, 
and  ran  into  the  public  house.  The  others  followed 
her. 

On  a  bench,  up  against  the  wall,  sat  Isaac,  staring 
stupidly,  trying  to  collect  his  senses.  Half  a  dozen 
other  men,  including  Tom  Bunsing,  were  gathered  be- 
side him,  near  a  table  covered  with  glasses. 

At  sight  of  his  mother,  sick  and  distraught,  the  young 
keeper's  eyes  seemed  to  clear,  and  he  steadied  himself 
against  the  whitewashed  wall. 

"  Merciful  God  !  what  has  happened  ?  "  cried  the 
widow. 

Isaac  did  not  answer.  He  was  trying  to  remember. 
When  his  mother's  message  had  reached  him,  he  had 
asked  the  Baron's  immediate  permission  to  depart,  but, 
instead  of  consulting  with  the  head-keeper,  he  had 
hurried  to  the  woods  to  look  for  Bunsing  and  secure  his 
silence.  He  had  found  the  poacher  there,  and  had 
learned  his  ultimatum  :  restitution  of  the  net  before 
eight  o'clock,  or  betrayal  of  the  secret  to  the  widow. 
In  vain  Isaac  had  pleaded  his  powerlessness ;  Tom 
Bunsing,  equally  desperate,  had  answered  with  the  in- 
12  177 


THE   MOTHER 

formation,  strangely  new  to  the  sufferer's  son,  that 
Vrouw  Quint  had  acknowledged  a  heart  complaint  to 
Katey,  who  had  whispered  the  news  to  Vrouw  Brodel 
at  the  farm.  "  And  a  sudden  shock  may  kill  her,"  said 
Tom  Bunsing  knowingly.  Isaac,  conscious  that  any 
appeal  to  his  mother  would  prove  worse  than  useless, 
had  broken  down  utterly,  had  implored  the  other  to 
delay  at  least  until  the  morning,  had  finally  rushed  away, 
through  brake  and  brushwood,  to  end  his  miseries  at  the 
tavern  in  drink.  Tom  Bunsing,  left  alone  near  the  spot 
where  he  knew  the  evidence  of  his  guilt  must  lie  hidden, 
had  set  fire  to  a  pile  of  dry  twigs  which  lay  dangerously 
near  to  his  hand.  Then  he  too  had  fled,  emptying  his 
pouch  that  no  cartridges  might  be  found  upon  him — 
hence  the  report — had  fled  across  country  to  the  tavern, 
where  all  men  would  see  him.  This  warning  was  enough 
for  him  ;  he  would  never  poach  again. 

"  I'm  all  right — all  right,"  said  Isaac. 

"  Isaac,  how  came  you  drunk  ?  "  faltered  his  mother. 
'  Why  didn't  you  warn  Basset  ?     Why  is  Tom  Bunsing 
here  ?     Don't  you  know  the  woods  are  on  fire  ?  " 

"  The  woods  on  fire  !  "  cried  Isaac,  starting  up  and 
reeling.  "  So  they  were  saying.  I  thought  they  were 
joking  !  "  He  turned,  searching  for  some  one.  "  Here, 
Bunsing,  yon  did  that !  " 

"  Yes,  you  did  that !  "  echoed  the  widow,  gasping,  and 
sinking  back.  Strong  arms  seized  her.  and  drew  her 
into  a  chair.  "  Mynheer  the  Baron,  he  did  it !  Tom 
Bunsing — the  poacher  !  " 

"  Did  I  ?  "  exclaimed  Tom,  "  or  did  Isaac  Quint,  the 
drunken  keeper  ? — Isaac  Quint,  who  gets  drunk  in  the 
woods  every  night,  and  keeps  bottles  of  spirits  in 
the  hollow  trees  up  yonder  ? — Quint,   the  drunkenest 

178 


THE  MOTHER 

drunkard  in  the  village,  as  everybody  standing  here 
knows,  except  his  old  fool  of  a  mother  !  " 

"  Silence  !  "  said  the  Baron  in  a  terrible  voice. 

The  widow  stared  up  at  the  faces  around  her,  and  read 
acquiescence  in  them  all.  The  vague  dangers  and  threat- 
enings  which  all  day  had  muttered  around  her  condensed 
into  definite  shape.  A  look  came  into  her  eyes,  as  they 
looked  on  her  son,  which  none  that  saw  it  has  ever  for- 
gotten. Her  head  bent ;  she  fell  forward  in  a  heap  on 
the  floor. 

They  lifted  her  immediately,  and  the  doctor,  coming 
to  the  front — for  the  whole  village  was  assembled  in  or 
near  the  tavern — tried  to  do  what  little  could  be  done. 
With  a  cry  whose  echo  seemed  unending  in  the  silence, 
Isaac  had  sunk  upon  his  knees  beside  the  body. 

The  police  were  in  the  room,  putting  back  the  crowd. 
Outside,  the  rustic  firemen  were  continuing  their  futile 
preparations.  The  distant  heaven  was  ablaze  with 
light. 

The  doctor  desisted,  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

"  Arrest  these  two  men,"  said  the  police-inspector 
softly. 

Isaac  held  out  both  arms  to  the  handcuffs,  and  over 
the  set  anguish  of  his  face  swept  a  gleam  that  was  almost 
of  hope. 


179 


The  Summer  Christmas 

IT  is  an  old  story,  forgotten  long  ago,  I  think,  in  that 
quiet  corner  of  the  world  which  saw  it  happen.  A 
touching  story  it  has  always  seemed  to  me,  and  strangely 
quaint ;  but  that,  perhaps,  may  only  be  because  to  me 
its  memory  remains  indissolubly  blended  with  recol- 
lections of  the  place  in  which  I  used  to  hear  it  told  me, 
because  the  soft  voice  of  the  teller  must  ever  be  to  me 
the  music  of  the  tale.  For  me  alone  is  this  :  why  should 
I  seek,  then,  to  intrude  it  upon  others  ?  To  them  it  will 
be  a  passing  incident,  printed,  paid  for  (a  tenth  part  of  a 
sixpence),  sliced  between  two  others,  yawned  over  for 
five  minutes,  and  forgot.  But  to  me  it  is  the  changeless 
Nowel,  the  young  anthem  of  the  angels  around  the 
cradle  of  the  Saviour  of  the  world.  And  again  I  hear  my 
mother  speaking,  in  the  wainscot  chamber  with  the 
painted  panels,  in  the  half  light  of  the  fire-logs  and  her 
face,  hear  her  telling,  with  a  voice  hke  distant  church- 
bells,  all  the  story,  how  it  happened,  with  but  little 
alteration,  many  winter  evenings,  almost  word  for  word. 
The  voice  is  stilled.  The  winter  evenings  were  long  and 
cold  and  dark.    They  are  longer  now. 

I  said  the  story  is  an  old  one.  That  must  be  true. 
For  one  thing,  there  are  no  Counts  Edelstam  in  Holland 
now  ;   the  family  has  died  out,  and  the  simple  customs 

i8o 


THE    SUMMER   CHRISTMAS 

among  which  they  hved  are  also  dead  or  dying.  All 
this  I  know.  Yet  to  me  the  story  is  so  fresh  and  new 
it  might  occur  to-morrow.  The  oldest  thing  in  a  man's 
life  (and  they  say  it  is  the  last)  is  the  memory  of  his 
mother — daughters  may  forget :  however  that  be, 
thank  God  !  to  this  eternal  soul — a-flutter  round  the 
flame  betwixt  two  shadows — come  some  few  thoughts 
that  remain  untinged  by  time. 

It  was  on  a  winter  evening  that  Magda  von  Malitz 
arrived  at  Stamsel — a  bitter  winter  evening,  cold  and 
dark  as  this.  The  old  Count  had  been  expecting  her 
since  sunset.  The  carriage,  sent  to  meet  her  at  the 
post-house,  should  have  brought  her  back  three  hours 
ago.  He  sat  in  the  wainscot  chamber,  where  the  painted 
panels  are,  wondering  if  some  accident  could  possibly 
have  befallen  the  horses.  The  suggestion  troubled  him- 
He  rang  for  Peter. 

"  Peter,  do  you  think  that  anything  can  have  happened 
to — the  young  Baroness  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  think  so.  Mynheer  the  Count." 

"  And  why  not,  pray  ?  "  asked  the  old  gentleman 
testily. 

"  Oh  !   if  you  wish  it,  of  course.  Mynheer  the  Count." 

Count  Edelstam  took  snuff.  He  used  to  be  a  long 
time  about  taking  snuff. 

"  Travelling  is  not  so  dangerous "  began  the  old 

servant,  who  never  spoke  unless  spoken  to,  except  when 
he  thought  he  had  gone  too  far. 

"  What  ?  "  His  master  stopped,  amazed,  with  up- 
lifted pinch. 

"  As  it  used  to  be,  I  was  going  to  say." 

"  That  is  true.  Now,  when  I  went  to  Paris  " — the 
i8i  4 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

old  gentleman  snuffed,  shook  his  head  and  waited — 
"  yet  that  was  before  the  Revolution  !  "  He  presented 
his  mull  to  the  servant,  a  thing  he  never  did  by  daylight. 

"  Your  Nobleness  could  not  go  now,"  said  Peter. 

"  Peter,  you  presume.  Mind  your  own  business," 
replied  the  Count  with  vivacity.  For  that  subject  was 
a  sore  one,  as  will  readily  appear. 

"  Still  I  wish  she  had  arrived,"  said  the  Count. 

"  So  she  has,"  said  the  servant. 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  the  Count. 

"  I  hear  the  carriage  in  the  courtyard,"  said  the  ser- 
vant. 

"  Then  why  the  devil  can't  you  speak  ?  "  said  the 
Count. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  presume,"  said  the  servant. 

"  You  are  the  curse  of  my  life,"  exclaimed  the  Count, 
running  out  into  the  hall. 

"  And  its  blessing,"  said,  preparing  to  follow,  the 
servant. 

Magda  von  Malitz  was  being  ushered  up  the  marble 
steps  from  the  great  doorway.  She  was  very  young, 
with  a  lot  of  fair  hair,  and  big  blue  eyes.  She  must  have 
looked  charming  under  her  travelling-hood. 

She  dropped  a  deep  curtsey  to  the  stately  old  gentle- 
man, her  uncle,  in  the  cloud  of  white  hair  (was  it  pow- 
dered ?  )  and  splendid  lace  ruff.  He  took  her  by  the 
hand  with  a  few  words  of  greeting,  and  led  her  into  the 
parlour. 

"  You  are  like  your  mother,"  he  said,  lifting  the  lamp- 
shade to  gaze  at  her.  "  Why  did  she  go  all  the  way  to 
Austria  ?     It  is  too  far." 

"  The  foot  goes  where  the  heart  leads  it,  my  uncle," 
said  Magda,  and  dropped  another  curtsey. 

182 


THE    SUMMER   CHRISTMAS 

"  Tut,  tut.  Well,  she  died  there  ;  it  is  seven  years 
ago. 

"  Eight  years,  my  uncle,"  said  Magda. 

"  Tut,  tut.  You  mustn't  contradict  me.  Nobody 
contradicts  me  here." 

Magda  dropped  another  deep  curtsey.  There  must 
lie  little  satisfaction,  she  reflected,  in  pretending  to  be 
right.     But  she  only  said — 

"  And  where  is  my  Uncle  Robert,  Uncle  Charles  ?  " 

"  Your  Uncle  Robert  is  away,"  replied  Uncle  Charles. 
And  he  coughed  a  great  deal,  and  cleared  his  throat,  and 
choked. 

"  Away  ?  " 

"  And  why  not,  pray  ? "  said  the  old  gentleman 
sheirply. 

"  My  mother  has  told  me  you  always  lived  together, 
that  was  all,"  she  answered,  with  eyes  full  of  innocent 
surprise  ;  "six  months  here  at  Stamsel,  six  months  at 
Bardwyk,  four  miles  off." 

"  It  is  four  and  a  half,"  said  Count  Edelstam. 

"  And  she  had  never  known  you  two  days  apart.  I 
have  often  heard  her  say  that.  When,  please,  is  he 
coming  back  ?  " 

"  You  ask  too  many  questions,  my  niece,"  replied  the 
Count.  "  You  are  a  stranger  here.  You  could  ask 
questions  for  ever.  My  housekeeper  will  show  you  to 
your  apartment.  After  that,  pray  come  down  and  have 
some  supper." 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said,  "  I  hardly  feel  myself  a 
stranger.  I  used  to  hear  about  you  and  Uncle  Robert 
every  day  while  mother  was  aUve." 

He  solemnly  kissed  her  on  the  forehead. 

"  You  will  be  happy  here,  I  trust,"  he  said.  "  We 
183 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

will  do  everything  to  make  you  happy.  It  is  a  quiet 
place,  but  so  is  Bardwyk  ;  and  neither  of  them  is  quieter 
than  your  convent  of  Plauensee." 

"  I  am  happy  to  be  rid  of  school.  I  am  happy  to  be 
here,"  said  Magda,  departing  under  care  of  Vrouw  Slomp. 

The  old  Count  turned  abruptly  to  his  servant.  "  Now 
that  is  very  strange,  is  it  not  ?  "  he  said,  "  that  she  should 
begin  by  asking  after  Robert." 

"  Not  so  very  strange,  if  your  Nobleness  comes  to 
consider.  Evidently  the  young  lady  knows  more  of 
what  happened  before  than  of  what  has  occurred  in  the 
last  six  years." 

"  Well,  go  and  live  with  my  brother  Robert,"  replied 
Count  Charles  inconsequently. 

"  As  your  Nobleness  pleases.  Shall  I  send  you  my 
brother  Paul  ?  " 

The  one  old  man  looked  in  the  other's  imperturbable 
face.  Then  they  both  had  snuff ;  and  while  they  were 
enjoying  it,  Magda  came  back.  Her  hair  was  all  about 
her  brow  in  curls  and  ringlets  ;  her  dark  frock,  high- 
waisted,  after  the  fashion  of  the  period,  suited  the  trim- 
ness  of  her  graceful  figure.  She  was  all  dimples  and 
sweetness  and  smiles. 

"  Now  to  prove  that  I  am  no  stranger,"  she  said  gaily, 
"  I  will  teU  you  about  that  snuff-box.  Uncle  Charles, 
which  you  have  got  in  your  hand.  It  has  a  stag  chased 
on  top  of  it,  silver-gilt,  with  two  rubies  for  eyes." 

"  Dear,  dear,  it  is  time  you  came  home,"  he  said, 
laughing.  "  Yet,  my  dear,  you  were  never  in  the 
Netherlands  before." 

"  Still,  they  are  home,"  she  answered  gravely.  "  I 
never  knew  my  Austrian  father  :  my  mother  has  been 
dead  so  long.     Brabant  has  always  seemed  my  father- 

184 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

land  ;   mother  wished  me  to  think  so.    She  never  tired 

of  telling  me  about  her  life  before  her  marriage.  Uncle 
Charles,  I  was  so  sorry  you  could  not  have  me  a  month 
earlier,  before  Christmas.  I  should  have  liked,  above 
all  things,  to  be  present  at  the  '  Peace-making.'  I  had 
been  looking  forward  to  it.  Of  course  my  Uncle  Robert 
was  here  for  that  ?  " 

"  My  dear,  I  must  go  and  wash  my  hands  for  supper," 
said  Uncle  Charles,  and  he  hastily  beat  a  retreat.  From 
one  of  the  panel-chamber's  many  gloomy  corners  old 
Peter  came  forward  into  the  shaded  light. 

"  Young  Freule,"  he  said,  "  you  will  excuse  me,  but 
the  name  of  your  Uncle  Robert  is  never  mentioned  in  this 
house." 

"  Why,  Peter,"  cried  the  girl,  "  whatever  do  you 
mean  ?    And  where  is  Paul  ?  " 

"  Paul,  an  't  please  your  Nobleness,  has  gone  with 
Count  Robert  to  Bardwyk  ;  they  live  there  always  now. 
Six  years  ago  our  masters  quarrelled  :  they  have  never 
met  or  spoken  since." 

"  Quarrelled  ?  " 

"  It  came  on  about  a  journey — quite  unexpectedly, 
as  one  may  say.  They  had  always  been  the  best  of 
friends,  though  very  different  characters.  My  master 
is  quick  and  kind-hearted.  Count  Robert  is  slow — but 
la  !  he's  kind-hearted  too." 

"  I  know,"  said  the  girl  impatiently ;  "  but  the 
quarrel !     What  quarrel  ?  " 

Old  Peter  peered  out  of  his  little  grey  eyes.  "  Your 
Nobleness  knows  a  deal,"  he  said.  "  They'd  been 
planning  their  journey  for  months,  but  they  always 
squabbled  over  it.  Count  Robert,  he  wanted  to  go  to 
Paris  ;  he'd  never  been  out  of  the  country  at  all.     Count 

185 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

Karel  had  been,  as  a  young  man,  with  me,  thirty-nine 
years  ago  come  next  June,  and  he  wouldn't  go  again, 
for  the  one  place  he'd  been  to  was  Paris.  La  !  what  a 
time  we  had  in  Paris  !  It  was  just  before  the  outbreak 
of  the  great  Revolution  ;  'tis  a  wonder  I'm  here  to  tell 
the  tale  !  "  That  was  Peter's  stereotyped  expression  at 
this  stage  of  his  story.  You  were  now  expected  to 
request  further  details. 

"  They  quarrelled  !  "  said  the  Freule,  speaking  as  in  a 
dream. 

Peter  knit  his  bushy  eyebrows.  "  After  what  we  had 
gone  through,  I  cannot  be  surprised  at  my  master's 
decision,"  he  said. 

"  But  there  was  no  revolution  six  years  ago  in  Paris  ! 
Revolutions  are  done." 

"  There  might  have  been,"  said  Peter  emphatically ; 
"  any  time.  The  people  that  did  what  the  French  did 
in  '89 — do  you  know  what  they  did  to  the  Dauphin  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  girl  softly. 

"  Dear,  dear,  they  shouldn't  teach  young  ladies  such 
things.  And  to  thousands  of  innocent  women  !  No 
wonder  Count  Karel  will  never  go  to  Paris  again.  No, 
he  wanted  to  visit  London  !  Count  Robert  refused  to 
hear  of  London,  because  the  English  have  taken  the 
Cape  of  Good  Hope." 

"  That,  also,  I  can  understand,"  remarked  Magda. 

"  They  had  frequently  quarrelled  about  the  matter, 
amicably,  as  we  fancied,  but  one  evening,  suddenly,  they 
grew  violent.  They  were  rude  to  each  other."  Old 
Peter's  voice  dropped  to  a  whisper.  "  Words  fell 
between  them — in  fact,  in  the  presence  of  us  servants, 
they  called  each  other  names.  I  should  not  tell  you,  but 
that  it  is  necessary  you  should  understand.     It  is  not 

186 


THE   SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

the  quarrel,  it  is  that  which  one  cannot  forgive  the  other. 
Each  refused  to  apologize  ;  both  were  in  fault.  Count 
Robert  left  for  Bardwyk  that  night  with  my  brother. 
There  has  been  no  communication  between  the  two 
houses  since." 

"  But  the  Peace-making  !  "  cried  Magda,  the  tears 
in  her  eyes.  "  Surely  they  must  meet  at  the  Peace- 
making !  " 

"  Hush  !  I  hear  my  master's  step  !  Neither  has  been 
present  at  the  Peace-making,  Freule,  since  the  Christmas 
before  the  quarrel !  " 

At  this  juncture  Count  Karel  entered,  and,  offering 
his  hand,  led  Magda  to  the  supper-table.  The  soft  light 
of  the  candles  fell  from  massive  candlesticks  :  there  were 
glittering  glass  and  snowy  napery  and  simple  fare.  They 
ate  almost  in  silence,  with  formal  question  and  answer 
about  the  journey.  It  was  only  when  the  oranges  and 
walnuts  were  put  on  the  table  that  Count  Karel  said 
what  he  wanted  to  say. 

"  It  has  been  arranged,"  he  began,  looking  down  on 
the  crackers  he  was  carefuUy  adjusting,  "  that  you  will 
spend  six  months  of  the  year  with  me  and  six  at  Bardwyk. 
I  shall  ask  you  to  leave  for  Bardwyk  on  the  31st  of  June. 
Meanwhile,  please  let  us  avoid  the  subject." 

She  laid  her  head  upon  the  table-cloth  and  sobbed. 

"  Don't,"  said  Count  Karel ;  his  voice  trembled. 

"  I — I  can't  help  it.  Please  forgive  me.  It  is  so 
different  from  the  home-coming  I  had  expected." 

"  You  cannot  miss  anything.  You  had  never  seen 
either  of  us,  Magda  !  " 

"  I — I  know.  But  I  have  loved  you  both  ever  since 
I  can  remember.  Mother  taught  me  to.  And  she  said 
your  love  for  each  other  was  the  blessing  of  the  neigh- 

187 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

bourhood.  It  had  taught  you  to  institute  the  Peace- 
making  " 

"  Silence  !  "  said  Count  Karel  in  a  voice  of  thunder. 
Its  tones  rang  through  the  lonely  house.  Old  Peter 
crept  up  anxiously  and  peeped  through  the  door. 

That  was  the  end  of  Magda's  first  evening  at  Stamsel. 
Many  days  and  evenings  followed — cold,  quiet,  comfort- 
able, uniformly  dull.  At  least  they  got  dull  when  she 
realized  their  uniformity.  A  silence  hung  over  the 
house — a  beautiful  old  house,  full  of  art-treasures,  many 
of  the  present  lord's  collecting.  Everything  was  in 
absolute  order  under  Peter's  most  absolute  rule.  The 
housekeeper  was  a  nonentity.  Magda  was  a  guest.  In 
the  clockwork  machinery  of  the  house  no  hitches  occurred 
except  such  as  the  master  occasionally  provoked.  Count 
Karel's  temper  was  quick.  He  believed  in,  although  he 
detested,  scolding.  He  even  scolded  Peter.  Peter  ruled 
him  with  a  rod  of  iron. 

"  The  house  is  silent,"  said  Magda  ruefully.  She 
obtained,  by  not  asking  for  it,  permission  to  drive  over 
to  Bardwyk  from  time  to  time.  The  latter  was  a  smaller 
edifice,  a  tiny  castle,  still  more  valuably  furnished,  not 
with  art-curios,  but  with  beautiful  sixteenth-century 
furniture  in  its  original  place.  Nothing  much  lay  be- 
tween the  two  properties  but  a  stretch  of  bleak  Brabant 
country,  dotted  over  with  stunted  trees.  Connected 
with  each  place  was  a  ragged  village  :  here  and  there  a 
stray  house  lay  lost.  Half-way  stood  the  church,  in 
almost  desolate  loneliness,  with  the  dwelling-house  of  the 
priest. 

And  so  Magda  got  to  know  her  Uncle  Robert.  He 
very  much  resembled  his  elder  brother,  but  in  a  quieter 
way  :  there  was  not  the  eagle  flash  of  the  eye  :  there  was 

i88 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

a  stronger,  squarer  chin.  Count  Robert  was  a  book- 
worm, perfectly  content  among  county  histories,  local 
and  provincial  and  familial  chronicles,  oddities  and 
quiddities,  notes  and  queries,  intellectual  parings  and 
fringes,  and  rubbish  of  every  sort.  He  hked  his  niece  to 
sit  by  him,  working  tapestry.  "  But  I  miss  my  bil- 
liards !  "  he  exclaimed  one  day,  suddenly,  looking  up 
from  van  Leeuwen's  Batavia  Illustrata.  She  did  not  ask 
him  to  explain  the  "  but,"  or  the  aggressive  denial  in  his 
tone.     "  Do  you  play  billiards,  Magda  ?  " 

"  No,  Uncle  Robert :  they  did  not  teach  us  in  the 
convent,"  replied  Magda  demurely,  bending  over  her 
work. 

"  My  dear,  they  were  very  right.  When  you  come 
here  you  must  learn  to  play  at  billiards,  and  also  at 
backgammon." 

"  Uncle  Charles  and  I  play  backgammon  of  evenings," 
said  Magda.     "  He  plays  beautifully." 

"  H'm — but  not  with  proper  caution.  Backgammon, 
of  all  games,  requires  caution." 

"  Does  it  ?  " 

"  I  shall  prove  to  you  that  it  does  when  we  play 
together.  My  dear,  it  wants  a  long  time  till  the  31st  of 
June." 

"  This  is  the  17th  of  April,"  was  Magda's  only  answer. 

His  pride  prevented  his  asking  her  whether  she  looked 
forward  to  the  transmigration,  yet  he  would  have  given 
a  good  deal  to  know. 

"  It  is  time  for  me  to  go  home,"  said  Magda.  That 
final  word  invariably  annoyed  him.  But  he  quietly 
rang  the  bell  and  asked  for  the  Freule's  carriage. 

Old  Paul  stood  in  the  doorway,  a  stouter  replica  of 
Peter,  with  a  redder  nose  and  whiter  hair. 

189 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

"  An't  please  your  Nobleness,"  said  Paul,  "  Thys 
cannot  drive  the  Freule  back  to-night."  Thys  was  the 
Stamsel  coachman. 

"  It  does  not  please  my  Nobleness  at  all,"  replied 
Count  Robert.     "  Pray,  what  is  the  matter  with  Thys  ?  " 

"  Thys  has  been  suddenly  taken  ill,"  said  Paul,  with 
a  grin  and  a  side  glance  towards  the  Freule. 

"Drunk,  of  course,"  said  the  Count  with  quiet  triumph. 

"  An't  please  your  Nobleness,  no,"  said  Paul,  with 
still  greater  satisfaction. 

"  Then  what  is  the  matter  ?     Out  with  it !  " 

"  I  hardly  hke  to  tell  before  the  Freule,"  said  Paul, 
with  beaming  face  and  fidgety  feet.  "  I  am  not  at  all 
sure  that  the  Freule  will  approve.  But  to  speak  the 
truth,  Mynheer  the  Count,  there's  been  a  fight  between 
Thys  of  Stamsel  and  one  of  our  Bardwyk  men,  and  Thys 
has  been  beaten  all  to  pieces." 

"  Which  of  our  men  ?  "  asked  old  Count  Robert, 
buried  in  Batavia  Illustrata. 

"  Red-headed  Jons,  the  stable-boy." 

"  The  rogue  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  himself."  Count 
Robert's  head  suddenly  emerged  from  the  book.  "  You 
will  not  give  him  a  gold  piece,  Paul ;  do  you  hear  ? 
I  will  not  have  it." 

Magda  had  risen.  "  No  one  need  ask  what  the  quarrel 
was  about,"  she  said  sadly. 

"  My  dear,  it  is  only  natural  that  servants  should 
stick  up  for  their  masters." 

"  And  the  masters  ?  "  She  looked  him  full  in  the 
face.  His  eyes  fell.  "  I  can  drive  myself  home  to-night," 
she  said.  "  But  I  very  much  fear  this  will  prevent  my 
ever  coming  again." 

Her  uncle  followed  her.  "  You  can  have  a  boy  from 
190 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

here,"  he  said.  "  Magda,  listen.  You  are  right.  Tell 
your  uncle  that  I  much  regret  this  incident,  and  that 
Thys  (whom  I  have  always  liked,  but  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there)  shall  have  every  care  and  comfort.  No- 
thing more,  child — do  you  hear  ?  and  nothing  less. 
Good-night !  " 

She  drove  back  with  an  exultant  Bardwyk  boy  behind 
her.  Her  heart,  by  nature  light,  was  very  heavy.  At 
the  pastorage-house,  half-way,  she  paused,  and  going  in, 
sat  down  by  the  old  priest's  side. 

"  You  love  them  as  much  as  I,"  she  said. 

"  Boy  and  man,"  replied  the  old  priest  meekly, 
"  I  have  known  them  fifty  years." 

"  How  long  ago  is  it,  reverend  father,  that  they 
instituted  the  '  Peace-making '  ?  Tell  me  all  about  it  ; 
you  have  never  told  me  before." 

"  Child,  I  think  I  have  told  you  everything.  It  was 
twenty  years  ago,  when  your  mother,  who  was  so  much 
younger  than  they,  married  and  went  to  live  in  Austria. 
Your  mother,  as  you  know,  did  not  marry  early  ;  she 
had  long  kept  house  for  them.  When  she  was  gone,  they 
said — and  I  think  they  were  right — there  seemed  to 
be  many  more  fights  and  squabbles  among  the  people. 
We  Brabanders  are  always  a  quarrelsome  race,  at 
Kermesses  and  feasts  and  funerals,  and  we  love  a  law 
contention  or  a  long-drawn  family  feud.  Your  mother 
— God  rest  her  gentle  presence — had  somehow  been  a 
Messenger  of  Peace.  She  would  go  into  the  cottages  and 
bid  the  men — and  the  women  ! — shake  hands.  Then, 
when  she  was  gone,  and  the  fights  and  contentions  grew 
continuous,  your  uncle  and  myself — yes,  my  dear,  I 
had  a  share  in  it  [he  smiled] — we  started  the  Christmas 
Peace-making.    Once  a  year,   at  the  Holy  Feast  of 

191 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

Peace  and  Goodwill,  after  the  Midnight  Mass  of  the 
Nativity,  we  hold  a  little  special  service,  full  of  '  Blessed 
are  the  Peace-makers,'  and  we  sing  the  Angels'  Song. 
It  is  very  short  and  simple.  The  Bishop  gladly  gave 
permission.  And  then,  ere  it  is  over,  they  who  will 
shake  hands  before  the  altar  :  some  I  call  by  name  ; 
with  many  I  have  spoken  previously  ;  with  some  I 
reason,  even  on  the  altar-steps.  Ah,  my  dear,  it  used 
to  be  a  beautiful  service  " — the  old  man  sighed  heavily — 
"  shedding  an  especial  glory  over  our  Christmastide." 

"  But  it  still  takes  place  !  " 

Father  Cordes  sighed  again.  "It  still  takes  place. 
What  will  you  have  ?  The  manorial  pew  stands  empty 
on  that  day.  On  all  other  occasions  Count  Robert  goes 
to  a  strange  church,  across  the  moor !  The  whole 
countryside  knows  of  the  quarrel.  The  influence  of 
your  uncles  is  gone.  On  more  than  one  occasion  in 
former  years  Count  Karel,  rising  in  his  seat,  has  com- 
manded some  resolute  wrong-doer  to  make  atonement. 
And  now  ?  Let  quarrel  who  quarrel  will.  Their 
masters  hate  each  other.  Fathful  Thys  of  Stamsel 
lies  at  Bardwyk  with  a  broken  head."  Tears  came  into 
the  old  priest's  voice. 

"  I  have  done  what  I  could,"  he  said  presently ; 
"  I  have  reasoned,  I  have  pleaded.  God  alone  can 
touch  hearts.  I  am  growing  very  feeble.  Freule,  my 
earthly  pilgrimage  is  nearly  over.  I  often  feel  that  I 
could  die  in  peace  if  I  could  see  my  masters  reconciled." 

"  You  will  see  them  reconciled,"  said  Magda  suddenly. 

"  God  grant  it."     She  rose. 

"  Ask  him.     Ask  Him  often,"  she  said. 

"  I  have  asked  Him  every  day." 

"  Then  how  can  it  not  happen  ?  But  ask  that  it  may 
192 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

happen  now,  dear  father,  before  another  Christmas 
comes." 

"  It  must,  if  I  am  to  see  it — on  earth,"  said  the  father 
thoughtfully. 

She  left  him  without  another  word,  for  she  could  not 
have  spoken  it. 

Count  Karel  was  fortunately  inclined  to  take  a 
favourable  view  of  the  affray.  His  natural  sweetness 
came  to  his  assistance,  for  he  was  one  of  those  people 
who  are  permanently  sorry  they  have  taken  offence.  So 
he  waited  till  the  assurance  that  his  coachman's  injuries 
were  anything  but  dangerous  (and  honestly  earned), 
and  then  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  smile.  "  Give  the 
boy  from  Bardwyk  a  pot  of  beer,"  he  said  to  Peter,  "and 
see  that  he  has  some  food  before  he  goes  back."  He 
turned  in  the  doorway.     "  What  boy  is  it  ?  "  he  added. 

"  One  of  Kotter's,  the  gamekeeper's,  Mynheer  the 
Count." 

"  Well,  that's  a  good  litter.  I'm  glad  Count  Robert 
has  taken  him  on.  But,  my  dear  Magda,  I  should  say 
you  had  better  give  up  going  across  for  the  present." 

"  In  all  things,  dear  uncle,  I  shall  do  as  you  think 
fit." 

It  took  Robert  three  weeks  to  write  and  ask  if  his 
niece  might  pay  him  another  visit.  He  would  not  apply 
direct  to  her,  that  being  contrary  to  his  ideas  of  etiquette  ; 
so  at  last  he  sent  a  note  :  "  Count  Robert  presents  his 
compliments  to  Count  Karel,"  his  logical  mind  forbidding 
him  to  use  the  phrase  "  Dear  Brother."  When  she  came, 
"  I  have  missed  you  very  much,"  he  said,  and  sat  and 
read  his  folio  for  the  rest  of  the  afternoon. 

Driving  along  the  untidy  road,  between  the  scraggy 
poplars,  she  came  across  the  doctor ;  and  she  stopped 
13  193 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

to  inquire  after  Father  Cordes,  who  seemed  more  feeble 
than  ever  of  late. 

"  What  will  you  have  ? "  said  the  doctor  coolly. 
"  The  man  is  nearly  eighty.  He  will  live  through  the 
summer,  I  should  say  ;  but  in  any  case  the  autumn 
damps  will  kill  him." 

"  That  is  very  sad,"  remarked  the  Freule. 

"  Sad  ?  If  you  saw  what  I  see  in  one  day,  young  lady, 
you  would  alter  your  ideas  of  grief." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  something  else,"  replied  the  girl,  to 
the  doctor's  annoyance,  and  she  drove  on  through  the 
mild  May  dampness,  with  grey  thoughts  in  the  gathering 
grey. 

"  Your  uncle  is  well,  I  presume  ?  "  said  Count  Karel, 
when  they  met  at  the  five-o'clock  dinner. 

"  He  had  a  cold." 

"  He  was  always  subject  to  colds.  He  does  not  pay 
proper  attention  to  draughts.  I  merely  inquire  because, 
unless  his  health  is  equal  to  the  exertion,  you  could  not 
go  to  stay  with  him,  dear  Magda,  in  June." 

"  Do  you  find  me  very  exhausting  ?  "  inquired  Magda 
with  a  smile. 

"  I  ?  Far  from  it.  But  a  guest  in  a  little  household 
like  Robert's  must  cause  considerable  commotion. 
Peter  manages  everything  admirably  :  I  should  hardly 
have  the  same  confidence  in  Paul.  And  Robert  is  a 
bookworm.  My  dear,  if  I  thought  you  would  not  be 
quite  comfortable  there,  I  should  not  allow  you  to  go." 
He  looked  across  anxiously :  this  reflection  had  frequently 
been  troubling  him  of  late. 

"  Dear  uncle,  let  us  go  there  together,"  she  said, 
trembling.  He  did  not  answer  at  all,  but  in  the  middle 
of  dinner,  in  his  nervousness,  took  snuff. 

194 


THE   SUMMER   CHRISTMAS 

"  I  met  the  doctor,"  she  began  presently,  unable  t6 
bear  the  silence  any  longer.  "  He  says  that  Father 
Cordes  cannot  live  through  the  autumn." 

"  Doctors  always  say  that,"  replied  Count  Karel  in- 
continently.    But  his  mouth  twitched. 

"  He  certainly  is  very  old  and  feeble." 

"  I  shall  go  and  see  him  to-morrow,  and  tell  him  about 
my  vinery.  I  am  in  hopes  he  will  have,  this  year  again, 
a  bunch  of  grapes  on  the  longest  day."  Count  Karel 
spoke  with  unconcealed  vaingloriousness  ;  in  those  days 
that  was  a  great  achievement.  Count  Karel  loved  his 
green-house. 

Next  morning  he  went  and  told  the  priest,  and  the  old 
man  answered  :  "  Count  Karel,  I  thank  you  kindly. 
But  oh,  'tis  a  branch  of  olive  you  should  bring  me 
first  of  all."  The  Lord  of  the  Manor  walked  home  in  a 
rage,  but  several  days  elapsed  before  he  remarked  to 
Magda  :  "  Yes,  undoubtedly.  Father  Cordes  is  not  very 
well  just  now.  It  is  probably  a  passing  indisposi- 
tion." 

"  Poor,  dear  old  man,"  said  Magda. 

"  He  is  not  so  very  old.  He  is  not  yet  eighty."  A 
long  pause.     "  True,  you  are  eighteen." 

"  Uncle,  supposing  the  doctor  were  right  ?  Supposing 
the  father  were  not  to  get  better."  Magda  stood  looking 
out  of  the  window.  "  Supposing  he  were  to  meet  my 
mother,  and — and — uncle,  my  mother  never  knew." 

"  How  dare  you  ?  "  exclaimed  Count  Karel,  and 
walked  out  of  the  room. 

"  You  are  right  in  so  far,"  said  Count  Robert  two 
days  later.  "  I  have  much  respect  for  your  judgment, 
Magda ;  for  a  woman's  it  is  singularly  sound.  My 
brother  has  never  sufficiently  considered  the  importance 

195 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

of  even  your  least  significant  actions,  with  an  eye  to  the 
peasantry  around.  It  is  a  mistake  I  have  often  pointed 
out  to  him,  when  we  were — in  the  habit  of  conversing. 
Now  this  subject  you  have  occasionally  referred  to, 
of  our  living  together  or  separately — in  itself  it  is  a 
matter  of  slight  signification  (we  have  two  houses) — 
but  it  has  its  exceedingly  objectionable  side." 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  dear  uncle," 
said  Magda  fervently. 

The  old  man  blinked  his  eyes.  "  I  am  alluding,"  he 
explained  hastily,  "  to  the  Christmas  Peace-making. 
Viewed  with  an  eye  to  the  Peace-making,  it  is  illogical, 
absurd.  I  have  often  thought  that.  It  is  absurd. 
Now  supposing  I  was  present,  by  accident,  at  the  Peace- 
making, from  a  simple  consciousness  of  absurdity,  I 
should  have  to  get  up  and  take  Karel's  hand." 

"  You  would  forgive  ?  "  she  panted. 

"  My  dear,  you  are  not  as  reasonable  as  I  expected. 
No.  Before  my  servant  my  brother  called  me  '  an  idiot.' 
To  accept  that  epithet  would  be  to  render  my  position 
untenable." 

"  Paul !  He  is  deaf.  I  am  sure  he  never  heard  it. 
Have  you  asked  him  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  subject  one  discusses  with  one's  servant," 
said  Count  Robert  stiffly. 

She  came  up  to  him  with  an  arch  imperiousness  and 
rang  the  little  hand-bell  by  his  side. 

"  My  dear,  you  forget  yourself !  " 

"  Trust  me,"  she  said  pleadingly,  "  not  to  do  that." 

And  when  Paul  came  in — "  Paul,"  she  began,  "  I 
think  you  have  omitted " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Freule,"  interposed  the  old 
servant  promptly.     "  I  can't  hear  what  you  say." 

196 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

"To  do  something  I  asked  you  the  other  day," 
shouted  the  Freule. 

"  I  never  heard  you.  I'm  getting  deafer.  But  I  was 
always  deaf.     What  was  it,  Freule  ?  " 

"  Paul,"  interrupted  Count  Robert  suddenly.  "  The 
last  time  I  conversed  with  my  brother,  did  you  happen 
to  hear  what  passed  ?  " 

Magda  cast  the  old  servant,  who  adored  her,  a  quick 
glance  of  intelligence. 

"  Not  a  word,  Mynheer  the  Count,"  said  Paul.  "  How 
could  I  ?  Why,  that's  but  six  years  ago.  I  was  quite 
as  deaf  then  as  now." 

"  You  may  go,"  said  Count  Robert  calmly.  "  My 
dear,  I  was  under  the  impression  that  we  shouted.  I  am 
glad  we  spoke  like  gentlemen.  Perhaps  it  was  not  as 
much  of  a  quarrel  as  we  thought.  Still,  he  was  very 
rude  to  me.  I  can  never  forgive  him.  But  I  admit  that 
the  Christmas  Peace-making  has  become  ridiculous. 
I  miss  my  billiards,  Magda  ;  I  hope  you  will  develop  an 
aptitude  for  the  game.  It  is  a  logical  game.  I  wish 
July  was  here ;  I  am  looking  forward  to  your 
coming." 

Magda  went  back  to  her  Uncle  Charles.  She  found 
him  in  a  state  of  exultation.  He  had  just  secured,  by 
chance,  from  an  itinerant  pedlar,  a  rare  piece  of  genuine 
old  Delft.  He  lingered  in  front  of  his  show-cases,  and 
she  observed  that  he  especially  attracted  her  attention 
to  the  acquisitions  of  the  last  half-dozen  years.  "  It  is 
a  pity,"  he  said,  more  to  himself.  "  Robert  was  a  very 
fair  judge  of  a  curio.  Now  you,  Magda,  you  do  your  best 
dear  ;  you  do  your  very  best." 

"  Uncle  Karel,"  said  Magda,  "  in  a  few  weeks  I  shall 
be  going  to  Bardwyk  for  good." 

197 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

"  Till  the  31st  of  December,"  corrected  the  Count, 
with  annoyance.  "  I  cannot  help  it.  I  am  exceedingly 
vexed.  I  shall  miss  you  most  dreadfully.  Do  not 
agitate  me,  Magda.  I  am  the  elder  ;  you  cannot  expect 
me  to  take  the  first  step." 

"  The  second  ?  "  begged  the  girl,  with  her  arm  round 
his  neck. 

"  Nor  the  second.  He  called  me  an  idiot  before  my 
servant.  Me,  the  head  of  the  family — no  man  would 
stand  that." 

"  But,  dear,  uncle,"  said  Magda,  half  laughing.  "  You 
called  him  an  idiot  too  !  " 

"  In  the  second  place,  Magda,  I  called  him  an  idiot, 
most  certainly.  I  was  right.  He  was  an  idiot.  As 
far  as  that  goes,  we  were  both  idiots." 

"  In  that  case,  dear  uncle,  you,  with  your  natural 
perspicacity — forgive  your  little  niece  ;  Uncle  Robert  is 
so  deliberate,  so  logical,  but  he  is  very  much  slower 
in  coming  to  a  conclusion  than  you — you,  with  your 
quickness,  your  keenness  of  perception,  I  am  sure  you 
would  have  realized  the  situation,  would  have  expressed 
your  opinion  of  it,  much  sooner  than  he." 

"  Dear  me,  there  is  something  in  that !  "  said  Count 
Charles.  "  You  think  I  must  have  been  the  first  to  dis- 
cover he  was  an  idiot  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure  of  it,"  replied  Magda  demurely,  and  kissed 
her  uncle's  hand. 

Count  Charles  took  a  few  steps  up  the  drawing-room 
and  down  again.  "  In  any  case  I  refuse  to  consider  the 
matter  before  Christmas,"  he  said.  "  I  refuse  abso- 
lutely ;  do  you  understand  ?  It  would  be  unfair  to  your 
Uncle  Robert,  who  has  a  right  to  your  six  months  alone 
with  him.     It  would  be  mean.     I  do  not  think  I  have 

198 


THE  SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

ever  done  a  mean  thing.  He  would  say  that  was  my 
motive.  I  refuse  absolutely.  You  will  particularly 
oblige  me  by  not  mentioning  the  subject  again." 

"  You  will  particularly  oblige  me,"  said  Uncle  Robert, 
next  week,  "  by  not  mentioning  the  subject  again.  I 
should  have  no  objection  to  a  satisfactory  settlement 
with  Charles  pro  forma,  though  I  cannot  forget  that  he 
erroneously  mistook  me  for  an  idiot.  But  I  have  always 
resolved  that  any  such  form  of  reconciliation  should 
take  place  exclusively  at  Christmastide,  at  the  Peace- 
making. That  ceremony  I  consider  the  only  raison 
d'etre  of  a  truce.  Our  example,  I  understand,  has  had 
the  most  disastrous  effects.  The  whole  neighbourhood 
is  in  a  more  lawless  and  quarrelsome  condition  than  it 
ever  was  before.  And  no  wonder.  Logic,  after  all, 
rules  the  world,  though  short-sighted  philosophers  deny 
it.  The  Peace-making  has  gone  to  ruin.  There  are 
families  that  have  quarrelled  for  years.  But  for  us 
to  restore  it,  personally,  as  we  could  do,  for  ever,  would 
be  humiliating  in  the  extreme.  Of  late,  my  dear,  I  have 
thought  it  all  out.  We  have  no  further  choice  ;  we  must 
either  remain  absurd  or  become  contemptible.  I  should 
not  object  to  the  Peace-making  ;  but  it  is  for  ever  im- 
possible.    Take  a  book." 

Magda  went  and  told  the  priest,  and  they  wept 
together.  "In  no  case  shall  I  see  their  reunion  !  " 
sighed  Father  Cordes.  "  My  days  on  earth  are  numbered, 
I  cannot  live  two  months." 

"  I  can  do  no  more.  I  give  it  up,"  said  Magda,  weep- 
ing. "  Let  us  speak  of  other  things.  There  is  one  thing 
I  have  long  been  wanting  to  ask  you  to  do  for  me,  father. 
On  the  17th  of  June  is  the  anniversary  of  my  mother's 
death.     I  want  you  to  let  us  read  a  Mass  for  her  and  to 

199 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

hold  a  short  commemoration  service  in  this  church  of 
yours  she  loved  so  well." 

"  I  will  come  myself,"  said  the  old  man,  trembling. 

It  was  during  the  following  night,  in  a  dream,  that 
the  great  thought  came  to  Magda.  Eagerly  she  went 
across  to  Bardwyk,  and  begged  of  Count  Robert  to  come. 
"  I  loved  her  dearly,"  said  Count  Robert  ;  "  I  cannot 
reasonably  refuse  to  be  present.  Magda,  you  are  a  good 
girl,  I  would  not  hurt  your  feelings.  However,  I  shall 
not  sit  in  our  chairs  :  you  must  see  I  have  a  seat  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  chancel." 

Magda  stopped  at  the  Pastorage,  and  held  a  long 
confabulation  with  the  father.  He  blessed  her  at 
parting,  his   hand  on   her   sunny  young  head. 

"  Your  Uncle  Robert  coming  ?  "  said  Uncle  Charles. 
"  Well,  that  shall  not  keep  me  from  being  present.  We 
want  such  a  peace-maker  here  as  your  mother,  my  dear. 
The  long  feud  between  two  families  at  Bardwyk  ended 
yesterday,  Peter  tells  me,  in  a  murder." 

"  God  forgive  the  guilty,"  said  Magda  under  her 
breath. 

He  glanced  across  her  at  quickly.  "The  Father  is 
failing  fast,"  she  said. 

"  He  will  outlive  Robert  and  me,"  replied  Count 
Edelstam  testily ;  "  but  young  people  always  think  the 
old  are  going  to  die." 

"  He  v^dll  never  conduct  another  Christmas  Peace- 
making," said  Magda. 

"  We  shall  see  when  Christmas  comes,"  repUed  the 
Count  defiantly. 

"  When  Christmas  comes,"  repeated  Magda,  and  she 
looked  away  into  the  pale  blue  sky.  "  When  Christmas 
comes." 

200 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

"  You  are  pledged  to  reticence,"  said  the  Count 
meaningly,  "  till  Christmas  comes." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Magda,  "  Christmas." 

"  When  does  Christmas  come  ?  "  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed— "  Wherever  the  Lord  Christ,  surely,  is  born 
into  human  hearts.  Christmas  !  it  is  the  Lord  Christ's 
coming  !  It  is  his  message  of  peace  and  his  birth  of 
goodwill !  "     She  passed  out  into  the  summer  night. 

For  the  ensuing  weeks  she  was  busy  in  the  little 
village  church.  She  renovated  it  entirely  with  deft 
fingers,  preparing  its  ornamentation  as  if  for  a  festival. 
When  the  day  approached,  its  altars  shone  bright  with 
fresh  gilding,  new  embroideries,  a  profusion  of  flowers. 
AU  the  last  afternoon  she  worked  hard,  admitting  no 
one.  Only  Father  Cordes  lent  her  assistance.  It  had 
been  her  especial  desire  that  the  service  should  be  held 
at  the  same  solemn  hour  as  the  midnight  Mass  of  Christ- 
mas Eve.  She  had  conquered  her  uncles'  opposition. 
"  It  was  the  time  of  my  mother's  death,"  she  reminded 
them. 

And  thus,  when  the  hour  was  come,  the  peasants,  for 
miles  around,  crept  through  the  balmy  stillness  of  a 
soft  midsummer  midnight  to  the  blazing  portal  of  the 
little  church.  In  his  stall  by  the  high  altar,  robed  and 
shrouded,  white  with  approaching  dissolution,  sat  the 
hoary  parish  priest  they  had  all  known  all  their  lives. 
And,  opposite  each  other,  on  both  sides  of  the  chancel, 
gazing  neither  right  nor  left,  but  at  each  other,  sat  the 
two  Lords  of  the  Manor,  the  old  Counts  Edelstam. 
Between  them  knelt  my  mother,  thinking  of  her  mother, 
praying  as  the  pure  and  loving  pray  for  the  pure  and 
good.  The  humble  little  church  was  a  splendour  of 
hghts  and  roses — white  roses,  the  symbol  of  peace  and  of 

201 


THE    SUMxMER    CHRISTMAS 

innocent  grief.  And  lo  !  before  the  altar,  in  the  place 
where  all  were  accustomed  to  see  it  each  December,  was 
the  presentment  of  the  holy  Nativity  in  the  manger,  the 
worship  of  the  shepherds  and  the  princes,  the  song  of 
the  angels,  the  evangel  of  Peace. 

There  was  nothing  unusual  in  the  service — the  Mass 
for  the  Dead.  It  was  not  until  quite  towards  the  con- 
clusion that  the  unexpected  occurred.  The  old  father 
got  up  from  his  seat,  and,  tottering,  came  forward.  His 
broken  voice  rose  shrilly  gaining  in  strength. 

"  Blessed  are  the  peace-makers,  for  they  shall  be 
known  as  the  children  of  God." 

It  was  the  little  Christmas  service  of  the  Peace-making, 
falling  in  where  it  would  have  fallen,  at  the  end  of  the 
Midnight  Mass.  When  the  customary  brief  allocution 
was  reached,  the  old  priest  gasped  for  breath.  In  a  few 
simple  words  he  told  his  hearers  that  he  would  never  keep 
Christmas  with  them  again  ;  he  had  grieved  to  see  how 
dissensions  had  increased  among  them  ;  the  recent  mur- 
der had  filled  all  Christian  souls  with  horror.  Once  more 
before  God  called  him  away  to  his  rest,  he  desired  to 
hold  among  them  the  wonted  festival.  He  had  chosen 
this  anniversary  of  the  death  of  her  to  whom  the  insti- 
tution owed  its  origin,  the  blessed  peace-maker  that  had 
long  been  called  away  from  amongst  their  midst.  "  But 
the  eternal  Prince  of  Peace  is  here,"  said  the  father  :  in 
the  utter  silence  his  feeble  words  fell  low.  "  He  is  here, 
and  He  is  waiting  for  His  birth  in  every  heart.  And  His 
message  is  the  same,  my  children,  yesterday,  to-night, 
and  for  ever,  the  message  of  forgiveness  and  good-will." 

As  he  ceased  speaking,  the  simple  village  choir,  but 
little  disconcerted,  raised  the  familiar  chant  of  the 
Heavenly  Host,  and  the  whole  congregation  took  it  up. 

202 


THE    SUMMER    CHRISTMAS 

As  the  Christmas  Anthem  filled  the  building  the  two 
brothers  left  their  places — none  has  ever  distinguished 
who  moved  first — and  silently  crossed  the  chancel  and 
grasped  each  other's  hands. 

The  father  stood,  with  arms  uplifted,  transfigured, 
upheld. 

Out  of  the  congregation,  before  any  other  could 
stir,  two  old  men  pushed  their  way  to  the  front,  and, 
below  the  chancel-steps,  Paul  and  Peter  embraced. 


203 


The  Notary's  Love   Story 

THIS  is  not  a  love  story.  Not  a  story,  at  least,  of 
the  fashionable  little  love  with  a  big  L.  The 
little  Love  that  explodes  and  fizzles,  like  a  little  flaring 
match. 

The  Notary  has  never  heard  of  loving  or  being  in 
love.  Only  of  love-making,  the  foolish  pastime  of 
red-faced  lads  and  lasses,  on  summer  Sunday  evenings, 
among  the  darkling  woods.     He  disapproves  of  it. 

The  village  street  of  Hardeveld  lay  winking  beneath 
the  glare  of  the  savage  August  sun.  Its  white  cheeks 
glowed  ;  its  green  eyes  glistened  ;  at  its  feet  the  grass 
blades  shrivelled  and  curled  among  the  red,  red-hot 
paving-bricks.  Across  every  house-front  the  shutters 
closed  tight,  in  alternate  bars  and  slits  ;  there  was  not 
a  breath  of  motion,  not  a  flutter  of  shadow,  all  down  the 
shiny  road.  Nothing  alive  but  the  Lord  of  an  empty 
Heaven,  spreading,  like  a  truculent  Pacha,  his  ample 
glory  before  a  veiled  and  cowering  Harim. 

The  whitest-robed  and  closest-veiled  of  the  houses 
was  the  Notary's.  A  cat  pressed  up  against  the  blister- 
ing door.    The  Notary's  tortoiseshell  cat.  Rhubarb. 

Inside,  the  Notary's  clerks  lay,  clammy,  across  their 
foolscap.  He  himself  sat  silent  in  his  sanctum,  the 
Notary,  Anthony  Barbas.     A  quantity  of  papers  were 

204 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

spread  before  him  ;  he  was  dozing.  He  had  a  right 
to  doze  ;  it  was  the  hour  of  his  fifteen  minutes'  nap. 

He  never,  in  all  his  uniform  life,  did  anything  he 
hadn't  a  right  to  do.  It  was  his  method  never  to  do 
anything  else.  "  All  the  rest,"  he  used  to  say,  "  is 
waste  of  time."  I  speak  of  him  in  the  past,  yet  the 
good  man  lives,  and,  therefore,  I  know,  is  doing  his 
duty  still.  Method  with  him  has  become  a  sort  of 
madness,  not  an  easy  thing  in  a  country  notary.  Many 
times  a  week  he  must  drive  to  all-day  auctions  in  un- 
trodden nooks  and  by-ways  ;  at  any  moment  he  may 
be  summoned  by  any  scheming  mortal  anywhere. 

His  only  systematic  weakness  at  the  time  I  knew 
him  was  his  nightly  pint  of  Burgundy,  "  St.  Georges." 
As  the  days  of  the  week  are  uneven  in  number  and  his 
habits  are  regular,  he  finished  the  bottle  on  Sunday. 
The  one  failing  had  begotten  another,  his  sole  bodily 
ailment.    He  called  it  sciatica.    The  doctor  called  it  gout. 

In  the  quiet  house  an  unobtrusive  housekeeper  moved 
smoothly  round  her  middle-aged  master.  The  cat 
purred,  when  cosiness  seemed  to  require  it.  The  big 
white  poodle  lived,  a  daily  demonstration  that  life 
is  an  enjoyable  thing  if  taken  leisurely.  His  intelligence 
had  never  been  wearied  by  useless  performances. 
"  Not  even  a  dumb  animal,"  said  the  Notary,  "  should 
be  needlessly  taught  tricks." 

The  clock  chimed  the  quarter,  and  Anthony  Barbas 
opened  his  spectacled  eyes.  The  eyes  were  pale,  like 
the  face,  and  the  face  was  somewhat  pompous,  like  the 
figure.  Anthony  was  a  comfortably  rounded  man, 
respectably  angular  in  feature,  profoundly  common- 
place. His  thoughts  had  been  active  while  he  dozed. 
All  the  morning  he  had  been  abnormally  occupied  with 

205 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

himself.     Thinking   of   that   first   white   hair   he   had 
brushed  to  the  dusty-brown  surface  in  dressing. 

He  had  worn  gently,  for  he  was  close  upon  fifty.  Of 
late  years  he  had  had  his  sciatica  to  remind  him  how 
very  well  he  felt.  Until  to-day  he  had  always  under- 
stood that  man  was  mortal  and  life  everlasting.  To- 
day he  knew  that  life  is  exceedingly  short.  It  is  an 
experience  common  to  all  thoughtful  men  with  one 
white  hair  or  more.  Life  is  short.  And  when  first 
we  hear  the  clock  strike  we  look  up  :  'tis  half  past ! 

Anthony  Barbas  sighed  gently,  perusing  the  close- 
written  deed  before  him.  It  was  not  particularly 
interesting,  not  even  important.  His  eyes  escaped  to 
the  lines  of  light  between  the  shutter-bars.  From  all 
these  well-screened  houses  you  can  look  out  as  much 
as  you  care  to.  That  is  the  beauty  of  discretion.  It 
cloaks. 

"  I  shall  do  it  to-day,"  said  Anthony  Barbas.  "  It  " 
was  a  proposal  of  marriage  to  Mejuffrouw  Sophy  Mulder. 
Mejuffrouw  Sophy  Mulder  was  a  pleasant  young  woman 
of  twenty-eight,  the  impecunious  companion  of  a  well- 
to-do  elderly  cousin,  Mejuffrouw  Martha  Mary  Quint. 
For  the  last  three  years  the  Notary  had  intended  to 
marry  Sophy  Mulder.  Often  and  often  had  he  made 
up  his  mind  to  do  it,  and  have  done.  But  the  modifica- 
tion of  his  domestic  economy  appeared  too  incisive,  seen 
close.  There  was  the  dilemma.  Was  it  right  ?  Was 
it  honourable  to  take  advantage  of  Miss  Mulder's 
position  ?  How  would  faithful  Sarah  Mopsel  stomach 
the  insinuation  that  she  had  not  tended  her  master  well  ? 
Was  it  fair  to  risk  tardy  disparagement  of  Rhubarb  and 
Ruff  ?  "  Every  benefaction,"  the  Notary  was  wont  to 
say,  "  creates  an  obligation.     For  the  benefactor." 

206 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

He  would  reason  lengthily,  stringing  together  alternate 
pros  and  cons.  That  is  a  sensible  attitude  towards 
marriage,  before  thirty,  when  men  seldom  assume  it. 
Not  that  he  doubted  his  personal  predilections.  He 
would  greatly  have  liked  to  marry  pretty,  pleasant 
Sophy  Mulder.  His  evenings  were  lonely  ;  his  comfort 
oppressed  him  ;  he  wanted  something  more  than  com- 
fort. It  was  not  his  fault  that  he  had  not  married  in 
time  (as  women  phrase  it).  His  youth  had  been  poverty- 
stricken,  burdened  by  the  care  of  a  mother  and  sister, 
both  of  whom  had  died  when  Anthony,  past  forty,  was 
able  to  support  them.  It  had  taken  him  some  time  to 
shake  himself  to  rights  in  the  belated  loosening  of  his 
life.  Now,  he  was  old  and  unaccustomed,  full  of  little 
twists,  uninteresting,  yet  not  selfish  enough  to  make  a 
successful  bachelor.  He  hesitated  around  Sophy  Mulder 
as  a  moth  near  a  candle,  a  bee  by  a  flower. 

Yesterday  he  had  heaps  of  time.  To-day  his  feeUngs 
were  those  of  the  man  who  must  catch  a  train. 

"  I  shall  do  it  this  evening,"  he  said,  "  as  soon  as  the 
sun  has  sunk  low  in  the  heavens."  He  sighed  suddenly, 
and  shivered  mentally.  There  was  an  ugly  echo  about 
the  words. 

A  quick  step  resounded  along  the  silent,  stifled  street. 
He  knew  it  was  Sophy's  ;  every  Thursday  afternoon,  at 
two  precisely,  she  passed,  on  her  way  to  the  almshouses. 
Peering  cautiously,  he  saw  her  go  by,  fresh  and  refresh- 
ing, like  a  cloud.    The  Notary  wiped  his  hot  forehead. 

And  once  more  he  built  up  his  resolution,  striving  to 
make  assurance  doubly  sure.  All  the  same,  he  knew 
that  his  courage  would  fail  him  five  hours  hence.  How 
many  a  man  has  missed  a  happy  marriage  because  he  has 
to  get  his  hat  and  go  and  see  about  it ! 

207 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

Sarah  Mopsel  broke  in  mildly  on  his  musings.  He  had 
been  very  gentle  to  her,  apologetic  even,  that  morning, 
when  she  smoked  his  coffee.  "  No,  no,  it  was  good 
coffee,"  he  protested,  and  then,  still  unerringly  truthful, 
good  coffee  up  to  a  certain  point.  The  point  when  you 
put  it  in  the  pot,  Sarah." 

"  That  young  man  Olland,"  said  Sarah  now,  "  is 
asking  to  see  you.  John  Olland,  the  'pothicary  'prentice 
that  makes  love  to  the  hussy  next  door." 

"  Show  him  in,"  replied  the  Notary.  "  Take  a  seat, 
young  man.     The  dog  won't  hurt  you." 

"  'Tis  that  grease-spot  on  your  trousers  he's  smelling 
at,"  remarked  Sarah  in  retiring.  She  abhorred  the  girl 
next  door. 

John  Olland  reddened.  He  was  a  harmless-looking 
creature,  not  yet  five  and  twenty,  with  a  wave  of  yellow 
hair.  He  deposited  a  big  case  under  his  chair,  like  an 
infant's  coffin  wrapped  in  baize.  "  I  am  come,  Mynheer 
the  Notary,"  he  stammered,  "  I  am  come,  as  you  may 

possibly  perceive "  the  door  flew  open.     "  Notary," 

cried  the  intruding  Sarah,  her  melancholy  features 
ablaze,  "you  know  I  wouldn't  venture  to  trouble  you, 
but  if  you  could  give  him  a  bit  of  my  mind  about 
Susan "  she  was  gone. 

The  Notary  cleared  his  throat.  "  Her  manner  is 
wrong,  but  her  meaning  is  right,"  he  said  gravely. 
"  You  live  almost  opposite  Mynheer  Olland.  You 
should  not  serenade  the  servant  next  door.  The  habit 
in  itself  is  objectionable.  And,  besides,  it  disturbs  your 
neighbours'  sleep." 

"  But  I  only  do  it  for  practice,"  feebly  protested  the 
unfortunate  assistant,  "  she  likes  me  to  do  it.  I  don't 
mean  her  !  " 

208 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  Indeed !  "  cried  the  Notary,  veering  round  in  a 
fume. 

"  She  knows  I  don't.  I  told  her  it  was  practice.  She 
thinks  that  it's  very  good  fun.  And,  surely,  Mynheer  the 
Notary,  it  does  nobody  any  harm.  The  liquid  sounds  of 
the  violin  these  beautiful  moonlit  nights " 

"  I  prefer  sleep,"  interrupted  the  Notary,  restlessly 
re-arranging  his  papers. 

"  But  that's  not  what  I  wanted  to  speak  about,"  the 
young  man  hurried  on,  perceiving  the  movement ;  his 
chest  broadened,  his  eye  brightened ;  he  was  not  half 
a  bad-looking  young  fellow.  "  I  came  to  ask  you  to 
lend  me  some  money,"  he  said  cheerfully. 

"  Oh,  of  course,"  retorted  Anthony.     "  Why  ?  " 

"  When  you  want  money  you  always  go  to  notaries, 
don't  you  ?  "  said  Olland  reproachfully. 

"  I  don't.  Perhaps  you  thought  that  was  what 
notaries  were  made  f or  ?  " 

"  Ye— es.     Partly." 

"  Your  information  was  incorrect." 

"  Look  here,  M5mheer  Barbas.  Let  me  tell  you  all 
about  it,  just  one  minute  " — he  flung  himself  nervously 
forward,  tugging  at  the  violin  case.  "  You  know  me  as 
the  apothecary's  assistant  opposite.  But  I'm  not  that. 
I  wasn't  born  to  be  that.     You  were  speaking  of  my 

serenade   to   Su to   Susan.    That's   what   I    am. 

Mynheer  Barbas,  by  birth  and  by  right,  a  musician.  I've 
never  been  properly  taught — worse  luck  ! — all  the  same 
I  can  play — and  compose."     He  drew  breath,  hotly. 

"  Pose.  You  were  about  to  remark  ?  "  The  lawyer 
abstractedly  studied  his  finger-tips. 

"  I  don't  say  I'm  an  unparalleled  genius — like  Beet- 
hoven. People  come  with  a  story  like  that  to  practical 
14  209 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

men  like  yourself  and  get  written  down  idiots  at  once. 
All  I  say  is  I've  plenty  of  talent.  I  want  to  earn  my 
living  as  a  teacher — meanwhile.  And  now  there's  an 
opportunity,  such  as'U  never  re-occur,  of  buying  out  an 
old  creature  that's  anxious  to  retire.  It's  in  my  native 
town  ;  he's  got  a  lot  of  cheap  pupils.  Some  day  I  shall 
be  a  popular  composer — and  pay  you  back.  Look  here, 
Notary.  Six  weeks  ago  I  sent  two  of  my  '  Capriccios  '  to 
Brahms — he's  a  composer,  too,  and  a  sort  of  connexion 
of  mine  ;  at  least,  his  name's  also  Johannes,  and,  when 
you've  got  nobody,  that  seems  like  a  kind  of  link. 
Yesterday  I  had  his  answer — you  see,  they  do  answer 
occasionally." 

"  And  what  does  he  say  ?  "  exclaimed  the  Notary, 
bending  forward  with  sudden  interest. 

"  It  isn't  a  very  long  answer.  But  I  hardly  expected 
it  would  be.  '  Endeavour  is  always  an  admirable  thing,' 
he  says,  *  yet  it  is  better  not  to  try  again  than  never  to 
succeed.'  Of  course  it  is.  '  Endeavour,'  you  see,  he 
says,  '  is  an  admirable  thing.'  Isn't  that  encouraging  ? 
A  great  man  like  Brahms  advising  me  to  persevere  !  " 

"  My  time  is  much  occupied,"  was  the  Notary's 
unexpected  reply.  He  spoke  irritably,  from  sheer  dis- 
appointment. He  looked  away  from  John  Olland's 
ingenuously  upturned  countenance.  "  Presently  I  must 
— ahem — pay  a  visit."  He  glanced  nervously  at  the 
clock.  "  I  have  not,  as  you  appear  to  imagine,  immense 
cellars  full  of  gold  at  my  disposal ;  but,  of  course,  I  can 
sometimes — for  my  clients — negotiate  a  loan.  On 
excellent  security.     Yours  would  be ?  " 

"  My  talent,"  replied  Johannes. 

"  Quite  so.  Your  security  would  be  your  assurance. 
And  the  sum  required  ?     A  couple  of  hundred  florins  ?  " 

210 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  Fifteen  hundred,"  replied  Johannes,  a  Httle  crest- 
fallen. 

"  I  fear  I  can  hardly  manage  it.  Good-day,  Mynheer 
Olland.  Take  a  bit  of  unsought  advice.  Stick  to  your 
pestle  and  mortar.  Few  men  want  music,  and  all  men, 
sooner  or  later,  want  pills." 

John  Olland's  face  was  purple.  He  rose  to  his  feet. 
"  I'm  not  ashamed  of  the  shop,"  he  said.  "  It's  not 
that.  I  could  have  stayed  on  here  quietly  enough,  and 
worked  at  the  composing  meanwhile.  But  it's  Susan. 
Hang  it,  Mynheer  Barbas,  the  real  Susan's  name  is 
Sophy.  I'm  awfully  sweet  on  her.  I'm  longing  to 
marry  her.  And  no  one  could  ask  her  to  take  up  with  a 
chemist,  though  perhaps  she  might  stoop — for  stooping 
it  would  be — to  a  Brahms." 

"  '  Sophy,'  "  repeated  the  Notary,  rapidly  reviewing 
the  few  beauties  of  Hardeveld.  An  increasing  anxiety 
sharpened  his  accent  and  features. 

"  It's  Sophy  Mulder.  The  '  Serenade  '  is  to  her  ;  only 
I  never  can  let  her  hear  it,  because  of  her  old  cousin  and 
— the  watchman.  I  love  her — awfully.  My  parrot — 
you  know  my  clever  parrot  ?  " — ("  I  do,  indeed," 
inserted  the  Notary,  bitterly) — "  yells  out  '  Susan  '  from 
morning  to  night.  I  had  to  make  it  '  Susan  '  but  he 
means  '  Sophy.'  Your  neighbour's  servant  knows  he 
don't  mean  her.  You  can't  think  how  it  cheers  me  in 
the  shop." 

"  And  Miss  Mulder  returns  your  affections  ?  "  faintly 
murmured  the  Notary. 

"  She's  never  heard  of  them  as  yet.  Had  you  lent  me 
the  money  " — wistfully — "  I  should  have  gone  to  Miss 
Martha  Mary  to-night.  Won't  you  let  me  just  try  that 
'  Capriccio '  ?    I  brought  my  instrument  with  me  on 

211 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

purpose.  You  will  see  there  is  really  something  in  it. 
Brahms  liked  it  " — the  violin  was  already  at  his  shoulder, 
a  preliminary  shriek  swept  the  strings 

"  Not  here  !  Not  in  office  hours  !  "  cried  the  Notary, 
now  also  erect,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said.  "  Myn- 
heer Olland,  I  consider  you  impertinent.  The  lady  in 
question  is  five  times  your  age,  and  is  also  your  social 
superior !  "  He  threw  open  the  door  to  the  office. 
There  was  a  sudden  scratching  of  pens.  The  office 
seemed  almost  hotter  than  the  sanctum. 

"  Five  years  older,  you  mean,"  corrected  the  apothe- 
cary's assistant  politely.  "  It's  three.  Well,  sir,  I 
suppose  it  can't  be  helped.  No  offence  was  intended. 
Excuse  me.     Good  day,  sir." 

As  the  visitor  departed  through  one  door,  the  Notary 
opened  the  other.  He  just  stopped  for  his  tall  hat  and 
stick,  in  the  hall,  and  then,  avoiding  the  business 
entrance  from  the  garden,  burst  out  into  the  roadway, 
upsetting  the  cat.  He  tore  up  the  dead  street  and  round 
a  corner.  Then  he  paused  for  breath,  mopping  his 
neck  with  a  red  pocket  handkerchief,  and  reflected  that 
after  having  waited  five  years,  he  might  now  have 
waited  to  put  on  a  clean  shirt.  At  least  he  could  have 
extracted  the  tell-tale  hair.  He  had  left  it  untouched 
that  morning,  in  the  vain  yearning  that  it  might  re- 
brown. 

"The  insolence!  the  idiocy!"  he  muttered,  as  he 
swayed  across  the  village  square.  "  But  its  I  that  am 
the  idiot  with  my  shilly-shally  selfishness !  Had  she 
fallen  a  reluctant  victim — poor  unbefriended  orphan — to 
that  blockhead  serenader — T — I — I."  He  panted  along 
the  sunlit  parsonage  palings.     The  minister's  slow  head 

212 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

arose  above  them.     "  Somebody  dying,"  concluded  the 
minister.     "  Humph  !     Sending  for  him,  not  for  me." 

Miss  Martha  Mary  Quint  was  one  of  the  chief  notables 
in  a  village  destitute  of  gentry.  She  enjoyed  (out- 
rageously) the  reputation  of  being  the  richest  person  in 
the  place.  For  years  she  had  lived  with  her  now  defunct 
sister,  Miss  Mary  Martha,  in  the  house  which  their 
father  had  built  and  bequeathed  to  them.  The  latter 
worthy,  a  shrewd  master-builder  and  prop  of  the  national 
church,  had  all  his  life  long  kept  one  eye  on  the  main 
chance  here  below,  and  the  other  on  possible  awards  up 
above.  He  had  always  proclaimed  himself  prosperous 
and  pious,  and  people  had  taken  him  at  his  own  valua- 
tion. His  first  daughter  he  had  named  after  both  the 
sisters  of  Bethany.  "  For,  with  full  respect  for  the 
powers  that  be,"  he  said,  "  seems  to  me  you  want  the 
pair  of  them,  to  get  through  all  round.  Why,  without 
Martha  to  help  her,  Mary  would  never  have  got  to  the 
other  side  at  all !  So  Martha  for  this  world,  Domine, 
and  Mary  for  the  next."  "  And  you  put  Martha  first  ?  " 
said  the  minister.  "  She  was  the  eldest,"  retorted  the 
deacon. 

The  birth  of  a  second  child  had  seriously  nonplussed 
him,  till,  suddenly,  on  the  second  day,  his  knotted  brow 
relaxed,  "  She  must  take  her  chance  of  this  world,"  he 
said.     "  And  we'll  call  her  Mary  Martha." 

Truly  enough.  Miss  Mary  Martha  had  proved  the  less 
ungentle  of  the  sisters.  She  had  granted  straw  when 
exacting  bricks,  and  her  whips  had  fallen  slack  beside 
Miss  Martha  Mary's  scorpions.  She  had  accentuated 
her  other-worldliness  by  dying  before  her  elder  sister. 
"  And  on  a  Sunday,  too,"  said  Miss  Martha  Mary  tri- 
umphantly. 

213 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  I  am  glad  it  is  you,  Notary,"  exclaimed  Miss  Martha 
Mary,  rising  from  her  straight-backed  chair,  as  the 
purple  gentleman  boiled  over  into  her  shaded  parlour. 
"  I  have  been  wanting  to  send  for  you — for  days." 

"  I  have  not  been  from  home,  madam,"  replied  the 
lawyer,  as  soon  as  he  could  trust  himself  to  speak.  "  I 
myself  am  now  venturing  to  approach  you  on  a  matter 
of  considerable  importance " 

"  My  affairs  first,  if  you  please,"  interrupted  the  lady. 
Her  harsh  voice  shook.  He  wondered,  could  she  possibly 
be  "  nervous." 

"  Let  me  speak  at  once,  or  I  shan't  speak  at  all,"  she 
continued.  "  I  want  you  to  make  me  a  will.  There,  its 
out.  Now  the  rest'U  be  easy  enough."  She  gave  a  little 
gasp.  "  Make  me  a  will !  It  sounds  mighty  queer. 
I've  always  had  sufficient  will  of  my  own,  for  this  side 
of  the  grave,  at  any  rate.  Mary  Martha  died  intestate, 
and  very  proper,  with  me  behind  her  ;  but  in  my  case, 
that  won't  do.  So,  although  I  never  did  such  a  thing 
in  my  life  before,  and  detest  the  disgusting  idea,  just  sit 
down  immediately.  Notary,  and  write  off  my  will." 

"  My  dear  lady,"  expostulated  the  lawyer,  for  the 
fiftieth  time  in  his  career,  "  there  is  really  no  cause  to 
feel  flurried.  The  mere  consigning  to  paper  of  a  last 
will  and  testament,  in  itself  an  exceedingly  commendable 
action " 

"  Flurried  ?  "  she  cried  furiously,  vexed  to  read  his 
thoughts  by  her  own,  "  do  you  fancy  I  fear  that  I'm 
going  to  die,  as  a  consequence  of  making  my  will  ?  I 
am  making  my  will,  Mr.  Notary,  because  I  am  going  to 
die  !  "  she  snorted  at  him.  "  Two  months  ago,"  she 
hurried  on,  "  the  doctor  told  me  I  had  a  heart  complaint, 
warranted  to  kill  without  warning.     I  knew  it.     '  You 

214 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

may  live  to  be  a  hundred,'  he  said.  They  always  say 
that.  So  I  may.  I'm  sixty-seven.  Had  I  been  Mary 
Martha,  I  should  have  been  underground  by  now." 

This  was  so  manifestly  correct  that  the  Notary  nodded 
his  head. 

"  So  make  me  a  testament,"  continued  the  spinster, 
"  and  just  put  in  this  :  '  I  leave  all  my  possessions, 
whatever  they  are,  to  Sophia  Alethea  Mulder,  my  cousin 
once  removed.'  " 

The  Notary,  worn  out  with  the  hurry  and  worry,  felt 
the  straight-lined  room  curve  suddenly  all  around  him. 
"  Am  I  to  understand,"  he  stuttered,  "  that  you  appoint 
Miss  Sophy  Mulder  your  unconditional  heiress  and 
residuary  legatee  ?  " 

"  Of  course,  you're  to  understand  what  I  say,  Barbas 
— if  you  can  !  Residential  legatee,  I  suppose,  is  your 
lawyer's  jargon.  So  she  is.  She's  lived  with  me  now 
six  years  and  more,  and  a  very  good  girl  she  is  on  the 
whole.  At  least,  she  is  good  in  intention,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  a  servant  nowadays." 

"  But  you  told  me  not  long  ago — I  remember  it  dis- 
tinctly— that  not  a  penny  of  yours  should  ever  go  to 
Sophy  !     I  know  you  did  !     I  know  you  did  !  " 

"  Hoity-toity,  do  you  grudge  the  girl  her  better  luck  ? 
I  remember  perfectly.  It  was  at  the  doctor's,  Barbas, 
that  evening  you  trumped  my  ace.  It's  three  years  ago, 
at  the  least.  And  I  don't  mind  telhng  you  now  that  I 
thought  in  those  days  you  were  weighing  your  chances 
with  Sophy.  And  I  wasn't  going  to  have  you  reckon 
on  any  pickings  of  mine.  I  stand  in  my  own  shoes. 
Notary.  For  shame,  an  old  fellow  like  you  !  But  I 
know  now,  of  course,  I  was  mistaken.  The  best  girls 
don't  marry,  I  always  say — won't  marry,  I  mean." 

215 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  Miss  Sophy  Mulder,"  repeated  Anthony  dully. 

She  shot  a  sharp  glance  at  him.  "  Barbas,"  she  said, 
"  you  are  growing  old  before  your  time.  There's  a 
white  hair  on  the  left  side  over  your  ear.  But  there 
mustn't  be  any  mistake  about  my  will,  mind.  Perhaps 
it  were  better  a  younger  man  should  make  it  ?  " 

"  As  you  please,"  said  the  Notary  stiffly. 

"  Ta,  ta.  A  young  man,  and  not  take  a  joke  from  an 
old  woman  !  For  you  are  a  young  man  still,  or  very 
nearly.  One  white  hair  doesn't  make  a  winter.  Marry, 
Anthony  Barbas,  marry  while  you  still  can  get  a  woman 
under  forty.  Soon  that  idea  will  seem  absurd.  And 
now,  is  my  will  to  be  made  or  not  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  you  will  permit  me  to  suggest,"  protested 
the  miserable  man,  "  that  stamped  paper  is  required  for 
official  documents." 

"  I  know  that,"  responded  Miss  Quint,  "  there's  a 
sheet  in  the  chiffonniere  that  the  carrier  brought  me  from 
town.     I've  had  it  in  the  house  six  weeks." 

"  I  would  rather  work  the  clauses  out  at  home,"  said 
the  Notary  ;  "  it  is  customary " 

"  Clauses  ?  There  are  no  clauses.  You  shall  do  it 
here,  and  at  once,  or  not  at  all,"  said  Miss  Martha 
Mary  Quint. 

She  marched  to  the  cupboard,  and  unlocked  it,  enjoy- 
ing now,  with  a  certain  unction,  the  long-dreaded 
ceremonial.  The  formal  arranging  of  the  implements 
took  time. 

"  And  now,  it  is  hopeless  and  impossible  !  "  reflected 
Anthony  Barbas,  his  pale  eyes  staring  at  the  wall.  Over 
and  over  again  he  said  to  himself,  "  Yesterday  I  might 
have  done  it — any  time  these  last  five  years  I  might 
have  done  it !     I  can  never  do  it  now." 

2i6 


THE   NOTARY'S    LOVE   STORY 

"  What's  worth  doing  at  all  is  worth  doing  at  once," 
said  Miss  Martha  Mary.  "  that's  why  I  waited  six 
weeks."  She  carefully  selected  a  new  pen.  "  And  all 
things  come  round  to  the  man  who  can  wait.  That's  why 
I'm  in  such  a  foolish  hurry  now.  No  one  would  ever  have 
known  what  fools  men  are,  if  it  weren't  for  the  proverbs. 
'  The  accumulated  wisdom  of  the  centuries,'  the  paper 
called  them  yesterday."  "  And  now,  for  heaven's  sake. 
Notary,  don't  be  all  day  about  it !  "  she  burst  out  pet- 
tishly, with  true  human  (men  call  it  "  feminine ") 
logic,  as  she  laid  down  the  pen  before  him.  "  Get  it 
over,  and  you  shall  have  a  glass  of  my  home-made 
anisette." 

The  Notary  knew  the  notorious  anisette.  It  had 
given  him  the  heartburn  before. 

He  settled  gloomily  down  to  his  work,  and  laboriously 
indited  the  beloved  one's  name,  encurling  it  in  flourishes 
which  made  him  feel  thirty  years  younger — memories 
of  a  caligraphic  clerkship,  a  moth-eaten  past.  Miss 
Martha  Mary  looked  over  his  shoulder.  "  I  suppose  I 
must  pay  for  those  whirligigs  ?  "  she  said. 

He  looked  up  in  her  face.  There  were  tears  behind 
his  spectacles  ;   she  thought  they  were  rheum. 

"  Miss  Sophia  Alethea  Mulder,  spinster — spinster — 
spinster.  Two  witnesses  are  of  course  required,"  he 
said,  "  in  writing.  Have  you  got  them  in  the  chiffon- 
niere  too  ?  " 

"  Dear  me,  Anthony  Barbas,  that's  the  first  time  in  all 
these  twenty  years  I've  heard  you  say  anything  sounding 
sharp.  Not  that  it  could  be,  really,  coming  from  so 
mild  a  man.  You  don't  look  well  this  afternoon ;  I 
suppose  it's  the  heat  upsets  you.  Though  Sophy  keeps 
this  room   cool  enough,   I'm   sure,   since   last   week's 

217 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

scolding.     Oh,  I  can  manage  Sophy  !     Call  in  any  two 
men  from  the  street." 

"  I  prefer  my  own  clerks,"  suggested  the  Notary, 
"  they  are  better  at  keeping  the  secret " 

"  I  daresay.  And  the  fees.  Nonsense,  Barbas,  of 
course  you  will  read — as  always — so  that  nobody  under- 
stands a  word.  And  besides,  all  the  village  may  know 
— I  should  like  it  to  know — my  intentions  regarding 
Sophy  !  "  She  threw  back  the  window-blind  :  suddenly 
a  torrent  of  golden  heat  filled  the  solemn  parlour. 

On  the  further  side  of  the  dusty  road  there  stretches 
a  sort  of  common,  broken  by  beech  trees.  Under  the 
shade  of  a  prominent  giant  lounged  a  solitary  individual ; 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his  eyes  on  the  house.  "  There's 
nobody  in  sight,"  cried  Miss  Quint  with  annoyance. 
"  The  whole  world's  a  furnace  ;  nobody  could  venture 
out  but  the  Three  Good  Young  Men  and  yourself. 
Sophy  doesn't  count.  She's  an  angel.  Who's  that 
yonder  under  the  beech  trees  ?  Come  here,  you,  sir,  you 
'pothicary's  'prentice !  Why  aren't  you  doing  your 
duty,  concocting  poisons  ?  Come  here,  and  make  your- 
self useful,  for  once,  in  connexion  with  death  !  "  She 
beckoned  vehemently. 

Barbas  started  up.  "  You  don't  mean  to  say,"  he 
exclaimed,  "  that  you're  going  to  entrust  such  a  secret 
to  yonder  young  mountebank  !  Consider,  Miss  Quint,  I 
beseech  you " 

She  faced  him.     "  My  secrets  are  my  own  to  betray," 
fhe  said  viciously,  "  I'm  doing  what  I  can  for  the  girl. 
And  she  won't  nurse  me  any  the  better,  or  worse.     Ring 
the  bell  for  my  gardener,   Barbas.     Good  afternoon, 
Olland.     Take  a  seat.     Psha  !  " 

John  Olland  sat  down,  darting  terrible  menaces  at 
2l8 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

Anthony.  Deaf  Pete  was  introduced  from  the  pigstye, 
and  the  atmosphere  grew  heavy  with  the  fragrance  of 
the  fields.  "  Phew  !  "  said  Miss  Martha  Mary,  clutching 
her  Eau  de  Cologne  bottle.  "  This  is  my  last  will  and 
testament.     Read  quick,  Notary.     Please  !  " 

When  Barbas'  agitated  explanation  and  brief  reading 
of  the  document  were  over,  John  Olland  remained  staring 
angrily  from  face  to  face.  He  considered  himself  in- 
sulted and  outwitted  by  this  evil  couple  of  capitalists. 
He  clenched  his  impotent  fists.  To  offend  Sophy's 
tyrant  would  be  madness.  All  his  accumulated  wrath 
glowed  red  against  the  Notary.  He  flung  his  signature 
sprawling  across  the  open  page,  and,  with  scornful 
rejection  of  the  timidly  proffered  fee,  he  made  for  the 
door. 

"  A  word  in  your  ear,  young  man  !  "  cried  Miss  Martha 
Mary.  She  lifted  her  yellow  face  to  his  red  one.  "  I 
spoke  to  the  watchman  to-day,"  she  said,  "  of  people 
who  prowl  round  my  house  at  night  !  But  I  see  they 
now  come  at  all  hours  !  " 

"  I  was  waiting  for  the  Notary  !  "  murmured  Olland. 
He  fairly  ran  away,  and  Anthony  Barbas  ran  after 
him, 

"  Notary  !  Notary  !  "  screamed  the  spinster.  "  It 
wasn't  my  business  brought  you  here  !  Remember  that, 
please,  when  you  make  up  your  bill.  And  now,  what 
might  you  want  of  me,  pray  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  nothing.  I  have  changed  my  mind," 
replied  Anthony,  in  the  doorway. 

"  I  suppose  it  was  an  offer  of  a  mortgage.  Now, 
Barbas,  I  have  told  you  before  that  the  only  investments 
I  believe  in  are  Government  securities.  You  will  never 
see  a  penny  of  mine." 

219 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  So  I  quite  understand,"  replied  the  Notary,  dis- 
appearing. 

"  Oh,  I  quite  understand,"  said  the  Notary,  outside. 

Miss  Martha  Mary  resumed  her  knitting.  "  And  a 
very  lucky  thing  he  came,"  she  mused,  "for  I  don't 
think  I  should  ever  have  brought  myself  to  summon 
him.  As  for  that  young  noodle's  appearance  on  the 
scene — why,  that  was  simply  providential."  She  nodded, 
wisely,  and  rang  an  angry  handbell.  Sophy  came  in, 
looking  strong  and  cool.  "  Sophy,  I'm  sure  that  it's 
time  for  my  medicine.  I've  just  left  you  all  my  money. 
So  no  wonder  you  want  me  to  die." 

Sophy  stole  her  pretty  arm  round  the  wrinkled  neck. 
"  What  a  wicked  creature  you  would  be,"  she  answered, 
"  if  you  meant  one-half  you  say." 

"  If  I  said  what  I  mean,  I  should  be  far  wickeder," 
declared  the  old  woman,  almost  regretfully,  and 
winked. 

Anthony  Barbas,  duUy  wandering  homeward,  found 
the  first  narrow  pathway  blocked  by  the  chemist's 
assistant. 

"  One  moment,  please.  Notary  !  "  said  the  young  man 
ceremoniously,  "  one  question,  please.  When  I  spoke 
to  you  this  afternoon  about  Sophy  had  you  formed  any 
plans  of  your  own  ?  " 

The  Notary  hesitated,  wishing  for  once  he  had  learnt 
how  to  lie.  With  a  rush  all  John  Olland's  pent-up 
reproaches  rose  hissing  to  the  surface. 

"  I  followed  you  to  the  house  !  "  he  shouted.  "  What 
a  hurry  you  were  in  to  betray  me  !  What  a  joke  with 
the  old  beldame,  while  securing  the  heiress.  Ah,  you 
thought  I  was  '  insolent,'  did  you  ? — '  impertinent '  to 

220 


THE   NOTARY'S    LOVE   STORY 

come  in  your  way  !  I'm  not  such  a  fine  gentleman  as 
you  ;  I  haven't  got  any  money  or  position  !  And  she's 
younger  than  you,  never  fear  !  "  He  fell  back  half  a  pace, 
and  the  Notary  threw  up  one  arm,  but  the  poor  fellow's 
thoughts  were  not  of  physical  violence.  "  I  wouldn't 
exchange  with  you,"  he  said,  "  not  with  you,  Mr. 
Barabbas." 

From  the  depths  of  the  Notary's  own  bitter  disap- 
pointment a  smile  bubbled  up.  "  Your  comparison," 
he  said,  "  is  unfortunate.  The  notable  point  about 
Barabbas  was  surely  that  they  let  him  go."  The  other 
fell  aside  with  an  oath. 

The  Notary  was  more  to  be  pitied  than  John  Olland, 
and  he  knew  it.  For  his  disillusionment,  neither  so 
high  nor  so  low,  was  a  dead  and  definite  level.  He 
had  nurtured  this  plan  for  five  years.  There  would  be 
no  more  plans. 

He  was  excessively  irritable  about  the  soup,  which 
Sarah  Mopsel  had  burnt.  "  It's  too  bad  that  you  cannot 
attend  to  me  better,"  he  grumbled.  Incontinently  she 
sniffed.  "  You  can't  say  I'm  exacting,"  he  exclaimed 
in  desperation.  "  God  forbid,"  replied  Sarah.  "  And 
what  would  you  do,  then,  if  I  sent  you  away  ?  "  "  Go, 
— and  pray  God  bless  you,"  said  Sarah  with  a  gulp.  He 
pushed  back  his  armchair  from  the  table.  "  Oh,  bring 
me  the  Burgundy  !  "  he  cried.  He  thought  the  room 
looked  squalid.  He  reached  for  his  tobacco-pouch.  At 
this  accustomed  signal  Rhubarb  jumped  down  on  his 
shoulder,  and  Ruff  placed  a  soothing  pink  nose  between 
his  knees. 

It  was  some  days  later  that  Anthony  Barbas,  as  he 
passed  down  the  street  in  the  hush  of  a  cloudless  evening, 

221 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

his  sad  thoughts  bending  a  back  already  bowed — 
stopped  suddenly,  hearing  his  own  name  called.  He 
turned  in  the  middle  of  the  road,  his  wide  hat  against 
the  sunset,  his  arms,  and  projecting  stick,  behind  his 
portly  frame.  A  shriek  and  a  whistle  greeted  him. 
"  Barabbas  !  Barabbas  !  "  cried  the  parrot  from  his 
perch,  "  Pretty  Susan  !  "  John  Olland  stood  by  the 
window  in  a  Napoleonic  attitude,  a  sneer  on  his  good- 
natured  face. 

The  Notary  shuffled  round  again.  "  No,  I  shall  not 
complain  to  the  chemist,"  he  muttered,  "  God  bless  my 
soul,  what  does  it  signify  ?  "  But  Sarah  was  not  so 
half-hearted,  she  said  ;  and,  as  the  nuisance  increased 
and  attracted  notice,  she  threw  out  dark  hints  of  a  mis- 
sion for  Rhubarb.  "  Peace,"  said  the  Notary,  sud- 
denly, sternly.  "  Barabbas  !  Barabbas  !  "  The  little 
street  boys  called  it. 

So  the  melancholy  days  went  slipping  by  each  other, 
and  nobody  got  married  in  the  village  of  Hardeveld. 
Bat  that  had  always  been  the  rule,  the  Hardeveld 
virgins  said.  Winter  came  ;  the  whole  world  grew  old. 
The  Notary  had  a  cough. 

He  was  sitting  at  his  breakfast  one  foggy  day,  when  a 
brown  paper  parcel  was  brought  to  him.  He  opened  it 
listlessly,  and  there  lay  the  parrot,  his  persistent  tor- 
mentor, the  sharp  eyes  glazed  in  death.  "  Rhubarb  !  " 
exclaimed  the  Notary,  to  the  tortoiseshell  cousin  on  the 
hearth  rug,  "  Rhubarb ! "  There  was  no  responsive 
slink.  Besides,  cats  have  no  consciences.  Their  mor- 
ality is  a  purr  and  a  grin. 

Rhubarb  lay  blandly  smiling,  with  closed  eyes  and 
swelling  chops.  Anthony  gingerly  turned  the  stiff 
bundle.     A  paper  lay  under  it. 

222 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  Sir, — It's  not  your  cat's  doing  ;  I  wrung  the  bird's 
neck.  Serves  me  right.  I  behaved  hke  a  cad  and  am 
very  sorry  for  it.  "  John  Olland. 

"  P.S. — I  couldn't  bear  to  hear  him  always  saying 
*  Pretty  Susan,'  anyhow. 
"  P.P.S. — He  was  growing  very  old  and  mangy." 

Anthony  dropped  the  carcase. 

There  was  actually  a  P.P.P.S.  ! — "  She's  a  rich  woman 
now,  too  good  for  either  you  or  me." 

Anthony  dropped  the  paper.  He  sat  looking  out  of 
window,  wondering  what  those  last  words  meant.  He 
had  heard  nothing. 

"  Here's  Mynheer  Olland,"  said  Sarah  gruffly,  at  his 
elbow.  "  Of  course  you  won't  admit  him."  Her  little 
eyes  lengthened  at  sight  of  the  mess  on  the  floor. 

"  Yes,  he  will,"  said  John  Olland,  in  the  middle  of  the 
room.  "  Notary,  the  man's  a  coward  that  can  only 
write  he  was  wrong.     I've  come  to  say  it." 

Barbas  held  out  his  hand.  "  What's  this,"  he  asked, 
"  about  Sophy — Miss  Mulder  ?  " 

"  Haven't  you  heard  ?  Then  they're  sure  to  be  here 
in  a  moment.  Miss  Martha  Mary  was  found  dead  in  her 
bed  this  morning.  You  and  I  know  what  that  means 
for  Sophy.  She's  the  richest  woman  in  Hardeveld 
now." 

The  Notary  nodded.  "It  doesn't  make  an  atom  of 
difference  to  you  or  to  me,"  added  Olland,  "  I've  long 
ago  given  up  thinking  of  her — given  up  all  thought  of 
her,  I  mean." 

The  Notary  nodded  again,  busy  with  his  own  reflec- 
tions. 

"  I  suppose  she  refused  you,"  continued  his  visitor, 
223 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  like  the  plucky  creature  she  is.     No  offence.     I  was 
sorry  for  you,  Mynheer  Barbas.     After  a  while." 

"  There  is  Miss  Martha  Mary's  gardener,"  said  the 
lawyer,  rousing  himself.  "  I  must  go  to  him,  Mynheer 
Olland.  Come  and  talk  to  me  about  the  music  some 
evening  " — he  leaped  boldly,  self-sacrifice  begetting  its 
brother — "  and  play." 

John  Olland  shook  his  head.  "  The  music's  no  good 
for  a  Uvelihood,"  he  said,  "  not  for  me.  I  can  play,  and 
I  can  compose,  but  what's  the  use  if  nobody  buys  ?  So 
I'm  going  to  be  a  chemist  after  all."  He  turned  on  his 
heel. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  Notary  was  closeted  with 
Miss  Sophy  for  the  first  time  in  his  hfe.  Sophy  sat, 
sweetly  sorry  and  tearful,  but  the  Notary  was  the  paler 
of  the  two. 

"  From  which  written  declaration  of  the  defunct  now 
before  you,"  the  Notary  was  saying,  "  it  appears  that, 
after  sustaining  considerable  losses  through  speculation, 
she  sank  the  remainder  of  her  means  in  an  annuity 
which  just  enabled  her  to  keep  up  her  position  in  this 
place.  When  everything  is  paid,  dear  Miss  Mulder,  you 
will  be  practically  penniless.  I  cannot  understand  " — 
his  face  grew  fierce — "  the  comedy  of  the  will." 

"  It  was  all  she  could  do  for  me,"  replied  Miss  Sophy 
gently,  "  she  meant  it  as  a  kindness  ;  she  thought  it 
would  get  known  and  would  help  me  to  secure  a  husband. 
It  was  very  unselfish  of  her,  really."  Miss  Sophy  smiled 
faintly  through  her  tears. 

"  But  what  now  ?  "  cried  the  agitated  lawyer.  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  ?  " 

"  Surely  that  is  a  little  premature,"  replied  Miss 
Sophy  ;   "  unlearn  being  an  heiress  first." 

224 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

"  Will  you  marry  me  ? "  cried  Anthony  Barbas. 
"  Now,  don't  go  and  think  me  indecent,  and  your  cousin 
not  yet  cold.  It  was  brutal  of  her,  I  tell  you,  Miss 
Sophy.  Miss  Sophy,  I'm  a  middle-aged  man  with  a  lot 
of  grey  hairs  and  a  competence.  I'm  not  rich.  Miss 
Sophy,  will  you  marry  me  ?  " 

The  girl's  eyes  dropped  ;  her  whole  frame  trembled. 
"  Hush,"  she  said,  "  hush.  You  shouldn't  speak  of  such 
things  now.  Mynheer  Barbas — and  here."  She  cast  a 
timid  glance  over  her  shoulder.  "  You  are  very  good — 
very  good,  and  I  know  it.     Very  kind." 

"  Which  means  no,"  said  Anthony  softly.  "  I  am  old 
and  a  fool.  I  hope  to  God  you  will  get  a  better  husband, 
my  dear  !  " 

A  long  silence  ensued.  "  It  doesn't  matter,"  said 
Sophy  at  length,  "  about  the  will.     Nobody  knows." 

"  One  man  knows,"  said  the  Notary. 

A  blush  overspread  all  her  pink  and  white  face.  "  You 
mean  John  Olland,"  she  replied.  "  Oh,  but  he  has  got 
nothing  to  do  with  it.     It  is  nothing  to  him." 

Something — he  could  not  have  told  you  what — 
brought  Anthony  a  sudden  revelation  as  she  spoke.  He 
got  up.  "  I  will  come  again  this  afternoon,"  he  said, 
"  and  help  you  with  everything.     Good-bye." 

He  did  not  go  home  immediately,  but  walked  into  the 
chemist's  and  bought  four  pennyworth  of  lozenges  for  his 
cough.  John  Olland  was  alone  in  the  shop.  "  Olland," 
said  the  Notary  carelessly,  "  you  say  you  were  so  fond 
of  Miss  Mulder  once.  Have  you  ever  spoken  to  the 
lady  ?  " 

And  John  Olland's  healthy  cheeks  grew  apple-red  at 
once.  "  Often,"  he  replied,  hard  at  work  on  his  little 
parcel.  "  She  was  in  the  choral  society,  Mynheer 
15  225 


THE    NOTARY'S    LOVE    STORY 

the  Notary.  I  used  to  meet  her  regularly  once  a 
week." 

"  Nothing,  I  suppose,  has  ever  passed  between  you  ?  " 
The  Notary  drew  circles  on  the  floor  \nth  his  stick — 
painfully  accurate  circles. 

"  I  regret  you  should  consider  that  question  neces- 
sary," repUed  John  OUand,  hurt.  "  Am  I  the  proper 
person  to  make  love  to  the  heiress  of  Hardeveld  ?  " 

"  She  isn't  an  heiress,  John.  She  is  penniless."  The 
Notary  shouldered  his  stick.  "  Listen,  boy  ;  wait  a 
week  or  two,  and  then  go  and  ask  her  to  marry  you. 
If  she  consents " 

"  I — I  don't  understand,"  said  John  Olland,  crushing 
down  the  little  parcel  on  the  counter. 

"If  she  consents,  come  and  talk  to  me  about  that  httle 
loan  of  yours.  One  thousand  florins  ought  to  get  you  a 
small  pharmacy  of  your  own.  In  another  village,  John. 
You  won't  mind  that." 

"  I — I  don't  understand,"  said  John  Olland.  "  Was  I 
wrong  after  all,  this  morning,  Notary  ?  Had  you  never 
proposed  to  her  ?  " 

"  You  were  wTong,"  said  the  Notary.  "  I  had  never 
proposed  to  her."  And  he  walked  out  of  the  shop  to- 
wards his  ofl&ce  door. 


226 


The  Banquet 


THEY  were  sitting  in  the  tidy  cottage,  at  the  summer 
Sabbath  midday,  round  the  Sabbath  midday  meal, 
the  four  of  them — old  Lobbers  and  his  wife,  and  his 
two  half-sisters,  Lisbeth  and  Maria,  tottery  and  de- 
crepit, all  four  of  them,  and  a  little  snuffy  and  blear- 
eyed,  but  neat,  like  the  cottage,  with  Dutch  neatness, 
of  spotless  muslins  and  abundant  starch  and  soap. 

Liza,  the  elder  of  the  step-sisters,  a  flabby  loosely 
built  female,  in  the  careful  Poorhouse  dress — Liza 
stretched  out  a  long  arm  towards  the  steaming  cauldron, 
but  her  watchful  hostess  knocked  it  aside. 

"  We  ain't  all  got  your  teeth  !  "  said  Vrouw  Lobbers. 
"  Give  yer  family  a  chance,  if  ye  can." 

"  But  I  ain't  had  my  money's  worth  yet !  "  cried 
Liza,  with  uplifted  fork.  "  I  ain't  had  my  money's 
worth,  Jane  !  " 

"  And  what  d'ye  consider  y'r  money's  worth,  pray  ?  " 
retorted  Vrouw  Lobbers,  "  with  potatoes  at  four  florins 
the " 

"  I  don't  care  what's  the  price  o'  potatoes.  I  pay 
you  a  silver  twopenny  bit  every  Sunday,  to  come  and 
have  my  Sunday  dinner  here,  and  if  I  can't  be  allowed 
to  have  my  money's  worth,  I'll  go  and  give  my  silver 
somewhere  else." 

227 


THE    BANQUET 

"  Where  ? "  interposed  her  step-brother,  fiercely 
chewing. 

"  Anywhere.  They'll  take  me  anywhere  for  two- 
pence— ay,  and  give  me  butcher's  meat." 

Vrouw  Lobbers  laughed  aloud.  She  was  rather  a 
cheerful-looking  woman,  with  a  red  face  in  the  snowy 
frills  of  her  cap.  "Butcher's  meat!"  she  repeated, 
vastly  amused. 

"  Butcher's  meat !  "  echoed  pensively  the  younger 
step-sister,  Maria,  who  lived  with  the  Lobberses,  and 
her  eyes  rested  long  on  the  contents  of  the  pot. 

"  She  lies,"  said  old  Lobbers. 

"  Of  course.  She  knows  that  as  well  as  you  do," 
assented  his  wife,  still  laughing. 

"  I  wish  I  was  dead,"  said  old  Liza,  making  another 
dash  at  the  dish. 

The  Vrouw  shook  her  head.  "  Don't  you  go  tempt- 
ing the  Powers  above,"  she  said  solemnly.  "  They've 
forgotten  you.  Let  well  alone,  and  eat  your  dinner," 
and  she  thoughtfully  drew,  with  her  knife,  two  fat 
bits  of  bacon  out  of  her  sister-in-law's  reach. 

"  There's  not  ten  years  between  the  whole  lot  of  us," 
replied  Liza,  curiously  watching  the  bacon. 

"  No.  I'm  sixty-seven,  and  you're  seventy-five — 
that's  the  difference.  All  the  same,  your  one  single 
back- tooth — for  feeding — is  worth  half  a  dozen  o' 
mine." 

"  I  haven't  no  back-tooth,  and  you  know  it,"  replied 
the  spinster,  peevishly  grinning.  "  Nor  I  don't  believe 
you've  got  half  a  dozen.  I  don't  need  to  chew  my 
food.     I  just  bolt  it.    That  does  well  enough." 

"  You've  nigh  killed  yourself  over-eating  several 
times,    all   the   same,"    objected  her  step-brother. 

228 


THE    BANQUET 

"  Nigh  killed  ain't  near  buried,"  grunted  Liza. 
"  And  I  had  a  good  time  while  it  lasted.  Doctor  says, 
down  at  the  house  :  '  You're  a  glutton.  You'll  die 
of  an  indigestion,'  he  says;  and  a  fine  thing,  I  tell 
him,  for  a  pauper  to  die  of ;  but  I  shan't  have  got  it 
in  the  Poorhouse — no  !  "  She  chuckled.  "  All  the 
pork's  eaten,"  she  said,  bending  for  a  closer  inspection. 
"  You  might  as  well  let  me  finish  the  carrots  before 
they  get  cold." 

"  There's  almost  enough  left  to  do  for  to-morrow," 
began  Vrouw  Lobbers  doubtfully. 

"  If  you  was  to  die,  there'd  be  a  vacancy,"  said 
Lobbers,  pushing  back  his  chair ;  "  and  who  knows 
but  we  might  get  in  Maria  ?  " 

"  I  won't  take  the  bath,"  interrupted  Maria. 

Vrouw  Lobbers  pushed  the  pot  across  with  sudden, 
resolution.     "  Help  yourself,  Elizabeth,  and  welcome." 
she    said.      "  You'd    take    the    bath    quick    enough, 
Maria,  if  they  put  you  into  it." 

"  I  wouldn't !  I  wouldn't !  "  reiterated  the  old 
creature  with  tremulous  eagerness.  "  You  wouldn't 
let  'em  ;  would  you.  Dirk  ?  " 

"  What  a  fuss  !  "  said  the  grumpy  brother.  "  Don't 
ye  wash  yer  face  and  hands  every  morning  ?  It's 
only  like  washing  them  a  little  lower  down." 

"It'd  kill  me!"  cried  Maria  hysterically.  "I 
never  took  a  bath  in  my  life.  Dirk,  you  wouldn't 
let  em  bathe  me  as  if  I  was  a  woman  from  the  streets  !  " 

"  Oh,  hold  yer  tongue  about  yer  killings  !  "  inter- 
posed Vrouw  Lobbers  unamiably.  "  Liza  isn't  dead 
yet." — "  No,"  said  Liza. — "  And  she's  two  years 
older 'n  you."  After  that  nothing  was  heard  for  some 
time  but  the  noise  of  Liza's  greedy  eating  :  then  the 

229 


THE    BANQUET 

mistress  of  the  cottage  crossed  to  a  perfectly  ordered 
cupboard  and  produced  a  bottle  of  gin  and  a  bag  of 
tobacco.  She  filled  two  bright  Uttle  glasses  for  her 
husband  and  Liza.  The  gin  was  an  extra :  during 
its  consumption  both  purveyor  and  purchaser  watched 
anxiously  for  some  cause  of  recrimination  or  complaint. 

When  the  last  drop  had  been  licked  from  her  glass, 
Liza  struggled  to  her  feet.  "  I  shall  go  and  visit  Greta, 
our  cousin,"  she  said,  and  then  added,  in  a  sudden 
impulse  of  malice — "  As  you  wish  it,  I'll  speak  to  her 
about  dining  there  o'  Sundays.  She  could  easily  give 
me  a  better  dinner  than  yours  for  the  money,  and  she 
wouldn't  talk  about  wanting  me  dead  !  " 

"  We  wish  it !  "  exclaimed  Vrouw  Lobbers  aghast. 
"  Oh,  the  wickedness !  And  I  that  allowed  you  to 
clean  out  the  dish  !  " 

"  I  didn't  say  I'd  decide  nothing — not  definite," 
replied  the  old  pauper,  pinning  on  her  workhouse 
shawl.  "  But  I'm  sick  o'  being  told  every  week  that 
I  eat  too  much.  You  want  to  make  too  big  a  profit 
out  o'  me,  Jane.  That's  the  truth.  I  don't  mind 
you  having  the  money  as  well  as  another — blood's 
blood — but  twopence  is  twopence.  And  I've  a  right, 
as  I  may  say,  to  my " 

"  Don't  yer  say  '  money's  worth  '  !  "  cried  Lobbers, 
with  a  bang  of  his  fist  on  the  table. 

"  La  !  at  Cousin  Greta's  I  could  say  what  I  choose  ! 
I'U  just  go  across  to  her  and  see  what  she  thinks." 

"  I'll  take  yer  across,"  said  Maria.  "  Maybe,  as 
it's  Sunday,  she'll  give  us  some  coffee."  And  the 
two  old  women  wandered  away  down  the  populous 
village  street. 

Their  sister-in-law  remained  watching  them  from 
230 


THE    BANQUET 

her  freshly  whitewashed  Httle  house  with  the  broad 
geraniums  in  the  window — the  cottage  stands  back 
by  itself,  beyond  a  sort  of  common  :  from  it  you  coula 
see  the  usual  .Sunday  picture  of  animated  repose — 
children  in  brilliant  colours  scrambling  across  the 
roadway,  men  with  shiny  shirt-sleeves  loitsring  against 
green  shutters,  a  medley  group,  beneath  the  lengthen- 
ing shadows,  playing  at  pitch-and-toss. 

Vrouw  Lobbers  turned  back  into  the  dusky  house. 
"  Any  man  but  you,"  she  said,  "  'd  be  ashamed  to 
have  such  sisters." 

"  Step-sisters,"  corrected  Lobbers,  smoking  viciously. 

"  'Tis  all  the  same.    I'm  dead-sick  o'  feeding  'em  '.  " 

"  Liza  pays  her  tuppence,"  said  the  man,  "  when  she 
comes.     0'  Sundays." 

"  And  what  does  Maria  pay — Sundays  or  weekdays 
— whom  we've  had  on  our  hands  these  fifteen  years  ?  " 

"  If  Liza  was  to  die,"  said  the  man,  "  we  could  get 
Maria  into  the  Poorhouse.  She  wouldn't  cost  us 
anything.    She'd  pay  her  tuppence  o'  Sundays." 

"  Liza  ain't  a-thinking  o'  dying,"  said  the  woman, 
tidying  up  the  things. 

"  You  can  die  without  thinking,"  replied  Lobbers 
sententiously.  "  Some  day  some  big  morsel  '11  stick 
in  her  throat." 

"  I  wonder " — remarked  the  woman,  pausing  re- 
flectively. Then  she  drew  the  gin  bottle  out  of  her 
husband's  reach.  The  old  man  did  not  ask  what  she 
wondered. 

"  Such  things  do  happen,"  continued  Vrouw  Lobbers, 
carefully  considering.  "  When  I  was  a  girl,  and  in 
service,  there  was  the  cook's  son,  a  charity  boy,  used 
to  come  o'  Sunday  evenings,  and  his  mother 'd  give 

231 


THE    BANQUET 

'im  a  dinner.  And  one  Sunday,  after  he  'd  eaten  it — 
veal  pudding  it  was  and  cold  pastry — '  Mother,'  he 
says,  '  what  d'ye  think  I  done  afore  I  come  away  ? 
Eaten  all  the  other  boys'  porridge,'  he  says,  '  twelve 
plates — as  none  o'  the  others  'd  touch.'  " 

"There  was  fourteen  plates,"  interrupted  Lobbers, 
puUing  at  his  pipe,  "  and  he  went  home  that  night 
and  his  stomach  burst.  You've  told  me  that  story 
before,  Jane.  La ! — not  two  Sundays  goes  by  that 
you  don't  tell  the  tale  to  Liza,  not  ten  meals  that  you 
don't  tell  it  to  Maria." 

"  You're  mighty  quick  in  your  'rithmetic,"  spite- 
fully retorted  the  woman.  "  Their  appetites  wouldn't 
so  madden  me  as  they  do,  could  I  fancy  a  morsel 
myself." 

"  There  you're  right,"  said  the  man  with  conviction. 
"  I  and  you,  we  was  always  poor  eaters.  Cheap  eaters 
we  was.  I  often  think  what  a  lot  we  could  save  if  it 
wasn't  for  Maria  !  She's  wonderful  hungry  for  one 
as  does  no  work." 

The  woman  came  and  sat  down  over  against  him  : 
the  smart  little  pink  and  white  tablecloth  spread  be- 
tween them,  a  blue  vase  stood  upon  it,  with  pretty 
blue  flowers. 

"  You  talk,  but  I  reckon,"  she  said. 

"  I  know,  Jane,  you  was  always  an  excellent  reckoner." 

"  I  reckon,  I  tell  ye.  Down  to  a  cent,  and  the  half 
of  a  cent.  I've  got  it  all  down  on  paper,  every  penny 
she  cost  us.  Not  that  it's  any  use,  for  we  shan't  ever 
get  back  a  brass  farthing,  but  I  can't  help  it:  I  was 
bom  that  way ;  I  must  cipher  and  count.  She  costs 
us  a  florin  a  week,  speaking  roughly,  more  than  we 
should  need   to  spend  if  she  wasn't  there."      Vrouw 

232 


THE    BANQUET 

Lobbers  got  up  again.     "  I'll  give  ye  the  exact  figures, 
she  said,  "  I've  got  'em  in  my  copy-book." 

"No,"  said  the  man,  with  an  oath,  "  I  don't  want  no 
figures.     It's  bad  enough  as  it  is,  but  it  can't  be  helped." 

"  No,  it  can't  be  helped,"  she  repeated,  and  picked 
a  loose  thread  from  the  tablecloth.  "  At  least,"  she 
added  presently,  "  I  suppose  not." 

He  stared,  with  extended  pipe.  "  What  d'ye 
mean  ?  "  he  said  roughly. 

"  I  wish  it  could  be  helped  ;  that's  all  I  mean.  We 
should  be  very  comfortable  if  it  weren't  for  Maria." 

"  We  can  manage,"  he  said,  a  little  anxiously.  "  At 
any  rate,  at  present." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  advancing 
her  face  across  the  table. 

"  I've  always  had  my  wages  regular  :  that's  all  I 
mean.  Six  florins  a  week ;  'tisn't  much,  but  it's 
more  than  they  always  gives  to  a  labourer.  I  shouldn't 
like  if  they  was  to  give  us  less." 

"  Like  ? — it  'd  ruin  us,  I  tell  ye.  You're  no  reckoner 
like  me.  I  save  and  I  slave  all  day  long  to  keep  things 
going.  I  can  just  do  it  with  the  money.  Don't  you 
bring  home  a  penny  less." 

"  I  never  did,  Jane.  I  never  was  one  o'  that  sort 
— no,  not  as  a  young  man." 

"  Then  don't  you  go  talking  nonsense  about  begin- 
ning now.  I  want  every  penny  I  can  get  to  keep  things 
going.  D'ye  hear  ?  "  She  cast  a  proud  look  round 
her  spotless  cottage.  "  Only  yesterday  the  minister's 
wife  was  in,  and  '  Vrouw  Lobbers,  there's  not  a  neater 
dwelling  than  yours,'  she  says." 

"  I  know,  I  know.  You  told  us  at  dinner.  And 
she's  said  it  before." 

233 


THE    BANQUET 

"  Said  it  before  ?  I  should  think  she  had.  She 
says  it  every  time  she  comes." 

At  this  stage,  Maria  crept  meekly  in. 

"  Well  ?  "  cried  husband  and  wife  together. 

"  Liza  was  taken  bad,"  said  Maria.  "  We  had 
coffee  at  Cousin  Greta's,  and  currant  buns — Liza  had 
two,  and  a  cucumber.  She  was  taken  bad  with  a 
choke  on  her  chest — so  bad  that  they  sent  for  the 
doctor."     Maria  sniffed. 

"  Well  ? "  repeated  husband  and  wife  together, 
craning  forward,  the  pair  of  them. 

"  *  She'll  kill  herself  some  day  with  her  greediness,' 
the  doctor  says." 

"  Bah  ! "  exclaimed  the  husband,  sinking  back. 
"  He's  said  that  before." 

"  *  She's  got  something  wrong  with  her  heart,'  said 

the  doctor  :  he  was  a  long  time  bringing  her  round. 

'  One  such  another  attack,  at  her  age,  might  kill  her,' 

said  the  doctor." 

"  Ah  !  "  said  the  wife. 

***** 

And  the  week  slipped  quietly  by.  Nothing  hap- 
pened— as  usual :  the  days  were,  as  usual,  monoto- 
nously full.  Lobbers  went  to  his  regular  work  as  a 
labourer  in  the  Baron's  woods  ;  Vrouw  Lobbers  scrubbed 
and  polished  late  and  early  ;  at  night  she  sat  down, 
spotless,  and  looked  around  her  spotless  home.  Maria 
tried  to  help — to  do  as  much  work  as  was  desired  of 
her,  continuously  scolded,  and  mercifully  resigned. 
Of  evenings,  when  the  man  came  home,  things  would 
grow  cheerful :  he  would  read  aloud  odds  and  ends 
from  the  newspaper,  smoking,  while  the  women  sewed. 

The  Saturday  came  round,  on  which  he  was  always 

234 


THE  BANQUET 

twenty  minutes  later — pay-time  delaying  him,  Vrouw 
Lobbers  watched  at  the  door,  till  the  minutes  had 
lengthened  beyond  the  half-  hour ;  then  she  frowned 
and  smoothed  down  her  ample  bosom,  and  sent  off 
Maria  to  the  Poorhouse  to  find  out  if  Liza  were  better 
and  could  be  expected  to  the  Sunday  dinner.  For 
Liza  had  remained  ailing  all  the  week  with  what  Maria 
called  "  chronicles  in  her  inside."  "  It's  a  fit  of  in- 
digestion," the  doctor  had  answered,  when  Vrouw 
Lobbers  stopped  him  in  the  road ;  "  she'll  get  over 
it  and  live  for  a  year  or  two  yet.  But  she  mustn't 
have  any  more." 

"  Drat  the  man ! "  now  said  Vrouw  Lobbers  in 
equivalent  Dutch.  "  If  he's  gone  to  the  public-house 
— a  thing  he  never  did  before — I  shall  give  him  more 
of  my  mind  than  he'll  care  for."  But,  even  as  she 
spoke,  her  husband  turned  the  corner  and  came  across 
the  common  with  slow  and  uncertain  step. 

Uncertain  also,  Vrouw  Lobbers  waited  till  he  lurched 
over  a  molehill :  then  she  said  decidedly — "  He's 
drunk.  Oh,  the  scandal  in  a  respectable  family ! 
Five  and  forty  years  long  have  we  never  had  a  thing 
to  be  ashamed  of.  Alas  !  the  day."  She  stood  wait- 
ing, her  arms  akimbo  :  her  husband  passed  her,  as  if 
unconscious  of  her  presence  :  he  went  in  and  sat  down. 

"  And  this  is  the  condition  you  come  home  in," 
began  the  housewife,  "  on  a  Saturday  night !  I  don't 
know  what's  befallen  you,  Lobbers,  that  you  should 
bring  down  disgrace  on  two  people  as  never  did  any- 
thing as  any  one  ever  could  find  fault  with  before  !  " 

He  looked  up  at  her,  not  having  heard,  with  dazed 
eyes. 

"Well,  get  them  copy-books,"  he  said. 

235 


THE    BANQUET 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  mischief,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Them  copy-books,  you  know." 

"  What  copy-books  ?  '" 

"  Them  as  you  ahvays  write  down  all  the  house- 
keeping in.  You  ain't  got  no  others.  Let  me  see  if 
I  can't  understand  that  two  and  two  don't  make  five  !  " 

"  Why,  you  never  wanted  to  see  'em  before  in  your 
Hfe.     You're " 

"  Never  mind  ;  I  want  to  see  'em  now.  And  look 
here,  Jane,  give  me  my  pipe." 

She  went  to  the  cupboard,  wondering,  not  sure  of 
his  condition.  But  she  brought  the  copy-books  in 
silence  and  spread  them  out  before  him.  There  were 
two  of  them,  fat  and  strongly  stitched  in  so-called 
moleskin  :  during  all  her  long  married  life  she  had 
neatly  written  down  her  accounts  first  in  one,  then  in 
the  other,  carefully  re-backing  them  when  they  fell 
to  pieces  from  age. 

He  turned  over  a  few  pages,  backwards  and  forwards, 
listlessly  gazing  at  the  close- written  columns  cf  figures  : 
then  his  eyes  grew  dim.  "  I've  never  been  able  to 
make  anything  of  sums,"  he  said.  "  You  tell  me.  But 
nobody  could  fell  a  tree  quicker 'n  I.  And  now  they 
say  I  can't !  " 

**  Who  says  ?  "  she  exclaimed,  erect  and  fierce. 

"  The  Baron's  agent.  Jane,  it's  come  at  last.  I've 
been  expecting  it  ever  since  the  winter.  I'm  put  on 
the  '  old  ones'  '  list,  as  they  call  it.  I'm  to  have  a 
florin  less  than  till  now." 

"  A  florin  less  !  I  can't  manage,  I  tell  you  !  I  can't 
manage  !  "  She  snatched  at  the  copy-books  and  drew 
them  towards  her. 

"  Don't,"  he  said.     "  'Tisn't  my  fault." 
236 


THE    BANQUET 

A  sudden  compunction  seized  her.  "  And  I  thought 
you  was  drunk  !  "  she  said. 

He  looked  up  reproachfully. 

"  For  shame  !  "  he  answered.  "  You  know  I  was 
never  drunk  in  my  life." 

She  turned  over  the  pages  hurriedly,  confusing  him 
with  their  glitter.  "  Look  here,"  she  said  ;  "  let  me 
show  you.  I  can't  manage  on  less.  Work  it  out  with 
me.  You  must  tell  the  agent.  I  canH  keep  things 
decent :  the  others  don't  want  to.  You  and  I,  we're 
simple  folk :  we  don't  eat  not  more  than  a  morsel, 
we  don't  drink  not  more  than  a  sip  of  gin  on  Sundays, 
for  you — but  we  must  live  clean  and  decent.  We 
should  die  if  we  was  turned  out  of  this  little  cottage. 
La — a  whole  florin  less  !  What  we  had  was  hardly 
enough  to  keep  soul  and  body  together  !  " 

"  I  can't  tell  him.    He  won't  care,"  said  the  man. 

They  sank  into  silence,  their  eyes  on  the  books. 

"  I've  never  wasted  a  farthing  on  nothing,"  said 
the  woman  at  length,  in  the  dusk  ;  "  not  since  we 
was  married,  five  and  forty  years  ago.  The  last  money 
I  ever  wasted  went  in  buying  you  a  fairing,  Dirk,  when 
we  was  courting.  I  bought  you  a  little  red  purse — 
d'ye  remember  ? — to  put  y'r  money  in.  It  cost  eighty 
cents — it  had  a  very  good  clasp." 

"  I've  got  it  still,"  said  the  man. 

"  In  course  you  have.  But  I've  always  regretted 
it.  People  like  us  don't  want  no  purse."  She  waited 
a  long  time.  "  All  the  same,"  she  said  reflectively, 
"  I  got  it  cheap.  " 

"  Where's  Maria  ?  "  said  the  man,  anxious  to  com- 
municate the  tidings  of  his  trouble.  The  woman  made 
answer — 

237 


THE    BANQUET 

"  Maria,  she  costs  us  a  florin  a  week," 

"  What's  that  to  do  with  my  question  ?  " 

"  Maria  ?  I  tell  you  she  costs  us  just  a  florin  a 
week." 

"  Well,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  ask  about  Liza's  coming  to-morrow.  Liza's 
still  poorly.  Dirk,  don't  you  hear  me  ?  Maria,  she 
costs  us  exactly  a  florin  a  week," 

"  Hear  ?     I  should  think  so  !     I've  heard  it  a  dozen 

times.     Go   to  h with   your  florin  !     She'll    have 

to  cost  us  less." 

"  Do  you  think  she  costs  us  more  than  she  must  ? 
Not  a  cent  !  " 

"  Well,  what  then  ?  " 

"  We  shall  have  to  get  rid  of  Maria." 

"  We  can't.  They  won't  take  her  in  the  Poorhouse, 
Jane — not  while  Liza's  there." 

"  Don't  I  know  that  ?  Else  she'd  have  been  in 
ten  years  ago,  I  promise  you." 

"  What  then  ?     We  can't  kill  her." 

The  woman  rose,  indignant.  "  How  dare  you  say 
such  wickedness,  Dirk  ?  If  any  one  was  to  hear  us 
you'd  be  shamed  afore  the  village." 

"  I  was  only  joking,"  he  expostulated,  with  an  awk- 
ward laugh. 

"  Joking !  'Tain't  no  subject  for  joking.  Sakes 
alive,  here's  Maria  !  " 

"  Are  you  there,  Maria  ? "  began  Lobbers  imme- 
diately.    "  Something     terrible     has     happened,     you 

must    be    prepared    for    it.     The    agent "      Maria 

began  to  cry.     "  The  agent  has  put   me   among  the 
'  old  ones.'     I'm  to  have  a  florin  less." 
Maria  laughed,  a  feeble,  old  woman's  quaver,     "  I 
238 


THE    BANQUET 

thought  you  was  going  to  say  '  turned  off,' "  she 
cried. 

Her  sister-in-law  burst  out  at  her  in  a  fury.  "  Turned 
off !  "  she  exclaimed ;  "  you  grinning  fool !  And 
why  should  they  turn  him  off,  pray  ?  D'ye  think 
he's  been  accused  of  stealing,  as  you  was  in  y'r  last 
place  but  one  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  lie,"  protested  the  old  spinster,  with  fresh 
tears.  "  It  was  proved  to  be  a  lie.  They  caught  the 
thief." 

"  Lie  or  no  lie,  it  might  have  been  the  truth,"  re- 
torted Vrouw  Lobbers,  who  had  flung  this  hbel  in 
Maria's  face  a  thousand  times. 

"  She  don't  understand,"  interposed  the  old  man. 
"  Not  earning  her  own  bread,  she  don't  mind  how  it's 
paid  for.  Look  ye  here,  Maria,  make  sense  of  this  : 
There's  a  florin  less  to  spend  every  week  in  this  family 
where  there  never  was  florins  to  spare.  Jane  and  I 
can't  eat  less  than  we  do,  Maria." 

"  Nor  I  can't,"  said  Maria,  with  a  gulp. 

"  Well,  you'll  have  to  go  and  get  fed  somewhere 
else,  then." 

"  You  wouldn't  send  me  away,  Dirk.  I  ain't  got 
no  tuppences  to  go  buying  a  dinner  with." 

"  How  is  Liza.  ?  "  queried  Jane,  looking  up. 

"  Very  poorly,  the  doctor  says.  She's  had  some 
bad  suffocations.  But  she's  coming  to-morrow — she 
told  me  to  make  sure  and  tell  you.  She's  coming 
to-morrow,  so  you  shouldn't  think  she  was  ill." 

"  Trust  her  to  grudge  us  the  tuppence,"  said  Lobbers. 
"  She  wouldn't  pay  for  her  dinner  and  not  eat  it — 
not  she." 

"  Well,  she's  a  right  to  it,"  said  Vrouw  Lobbers 
239 


THE    BANQUET 

briskly.  Her  voice  had  resumed  its  cheery  tone.  She 
went  and  got  a  shawl  and  a  basket.  "  I'm  just  step- 
ping across  to  the  High  Street,"  she  said.  "  As  she's 
coming  to-morrow,  we  must  give  her  the  dinner  she 
pays  us  for.  She  shall  have  it,  Dirk  ;  she  shall  have 
it,  Maria,  and,  as  she's  poorly,  of  the  best.  Saveloys 
is  Liza's  favourites  :  she  shall  have  a  saveloy.  And 
cabbages  and  cucumbers  was  always  her  particular 
vegetables.  She  shall  have  a  cabbage  and  a  cucumber, 
Maria  ;  she  shall  have  a  cucumber  and  she  shall  have 
a  cabbage.  Dirk." 

It  was  late  when  she  returned  and  triumphantly 
displayed  her  purchases.  The  frugal  supper  did  not 
take  long  to  get  ready  :  they  partook  of  it,  and  a 
chapter  in  Chronicles  closed  the  day.  After  Jane 
had  kissed  and  comforted  her  husband,  she  lay  awake 
for  a  long  time,  doing  interminable,  unreasonable 
sums.  When,  at  last,  she  fell  asleep,  she  dreamed  she 
had  the  nightmare  from  over-eating.  She  woke, 
tired  and  flurried.  She  felt  glad  the  morning  was 
Sunday.  Maria  cooked  the  coffee  ;  there  was  nothing 
to  be  done  but  to  sally  forth  leisurely  to  church.  Jane 
tied  her  husband's  broad  black  bow  for  him,  as  she 
had  always  done  these  five  and  forty  years.  In  church 
she  looked  so  neat  and  "  bonnie,"  with  her  big  black 
bonnet  and  big  white  curls,  the  minister's  wife  could 
not  keep  back  an  approving  nod.  She  listened  in- 
tently all  through  the  sermon  :  perhaps  the  minister's 
wife  would  not  have  smiled  so  kindly  had  she  known 
that  Vrouw  Lobbers  did  not  think  much  of  the  minister's 
easy  theology.  "  He's  always  talking  of  love,"  said 
Vrouw  Lobbers,  with  unconcealed  scorn. 

After  church  the  old  couple  waited  for  Liza,  and 
240 


THE    BANQUET 

took  her  along  with  them.    They  hstened  almost  in 
silence   to   the   poor  creature's  querulous  complaints. 

"  Yes,  I'm  coming,"  said  Liza  eagerly.  "  '  If  I'm 
well  enough  to  go  to  church,'  I  says  to  the  matron 
(which  I'm  not),  '  I'm  well  enough  to  go  and  get  a 
better  dinner  than  the  Poorhouse  '11  supply.'  Not  that 
your  dinners  are  anything  to  boast  of  at  the  price, 
Jane,  but  the  doctor,  he's  been  giving  me  chicken- 
broth  without  any  chicken  for  a  week." 

At  this  stage  they  came  across  the  doctor.  "  Now, 
mind  you,"  he  said,  stopping,  "  don't  you  go  and  eat 
anything  indigestible,  Eliza.  I  won't  answer  for  the 
consequences  if  you  do.  Vrouw  I.obbers,  see  that 
she's  careful." 

"  Yes,  sir,  certainly,  all  I  can,"  replied  Vrouw  Lob- 
bers,  with  a  curtsey.  And  as  the  doctor  passed  on  his 
way,  "  You  heard  him,"   she  said  to  her  sister-in-law. 

"  I  shall  eat  what  I  choose,"  snapped  Liza. 

Vrouw  Lobbers  called  after  the  doctor — 

"She  won't  listen  to  you,  sir:  how '11  she  listen  to 
me  ? "  cried  Vrouw  Lobbers.  "  It  ain't  my  fault, 
sir,  whatever  she  does.  Mark  my  words ;  it  ain't  no 
fault  o'  mine." 

"  Let  her  kill  herself,  if  she  chooses,"  the  doctor 
cried  back  in  a  rage. 

Vrouw  Lobbers  repeated  these  words  to  herself, 
half  aloud.  She  repeated  them  twice  over.  Liza 
grinned. 

"  Better  go  home  and  have  your  broth,"  said  Dirk 
suddenly. 

"  So  that  you  should  eat  the  dinner  I  paid  for  !  " 
burst  out  his  step-sister.  "  Give  me  back  my  tup- 
pence, then." 

16  241 


THE    BANQUET 

"  I  will,"  said  Dirk. 

Both  women  stared. 

"  You'd  better  be  saving  of  your  tuppences,"  sneered 
Liza.  "  You'll  have  fewer  of  them  than  ever,  I'm 
told." 

"  Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  Never  you  mind.  It's  all  over  the  place.  You're 
shelved  among  the  old  ones." 

"  We  should  be  able  to  get  along  all  the  same  if  it 
wasn't  for  Maria  and  you." 

"  Me  ?— me  ? " 

"  Hold  your  tongue.  Dirk,  and  don't  say  such  wicked 
things,"  interposed  his  wife.  "  And  come  in  to  your 
dinner,  Liza,  and  thank  your  stars  we  can  give  it  you 
as  good." 

So  they  sat  down  to  the  midday  meal,  the  four  of 
them,  tottery,  clean-clothed,  blear-eyed,  to  the  Sunday 
midday  meal.  They  again  grew  very  silent.  Maria 
put  down  the  food. 

"  A  saveloy  !  "  exclaimed  old  Liza.  "  Now  I  take 
that  kindly  of  you,  Jane  !  My  favourite  dish,  of  all 
things !     That's   better    than    Poorhouse   broth !  " 

"  Don't  you  eat  of  it,"  said  the  man,  suddenly  laying 
down  his  knife  and  fork.  "  Remember  what  the  doctor 
told  you." 

"  No,  don't  you  eat  of  it !  "  eagerly  echoed  the  wife. 
Her  fingers  twitched  :  there  were  two  white  spots  on 
the  hard  red  of  her  fresh-coloured  old  face. 

"  No,  don't,"  repeated  Maria. 

"  So  there  should  be  more  for  you — eh  ?  "  answered 
Liza,  looking  from  one  to  the  other.  "I  to  pay — 
and  you  to  eat  ?  " 

"  D'ye  think  tuppence  pays  for  saveloys,  you  old 
242 


THE    BANQUET 

pauper  ? "  screamed  the  sister-in-law ;  but  imme- 
diately her  voice  dropped  :  "  I  bought  it  a-purpose 
for  you,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  fancy  such  things.  Eat 
the  whole  of  it  if  you  like  :  that'll  please  us." 

"  I  don't  believe  you,  but  I  will,"  replied  Liza,  her 
mouth  full.  And  so  they  ate  in  silence :  certainly 
Vrouw  Lobbers  had  but  little  appetite  :  she  sat  staring 
at  her  woe-begone  husband  :  the  two  sisters  consumed 
as  much  as  they  could  get. 

"  Don't  you  touch  the  cucumber,  Maria,"  inter- 
posed Vrouw  Lobbers.  "  I  got  it  on  purpose  for 
Liza." 

"  Wait  till  you  can  pay,  Maria,"  said  Liza ;  but 
she  helped  her  sister  to  a  few  slices  as  she  spoke. 

"  I  shall  never  be  able  to  pay,"  said  Maria. 

"  Yes,  you  will  when  I'm  dead,  and  they  get  you 
into  the  Poorhouse."  Vrouw  Lobbers  started,  despite 
her  self-control.  "  But  I  don't  intend  to  give  them 
a  chance  yet  awhile." 

"  Have  some  cabbage,  Liza  ?  "  said  Vrouw  Lobbers. 

"  So  I  shall ;  but  I'll  take  my  own  time  about  it, 
as  I  shall  about  dying.  One'd  think  you  want  me  to 
over-eat  myself." 

Vrouw  Lobbers  pushed  forward  what  was  left  of 
the  saveloy. 

"  They  couldn't  get  me  in.  I  wouldn't  take  the 
bath,"  said  Maria. 

Vrouw  Lobbers  smiled. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Maria,  do !  "  cried  her  brother 
— almost  kindly. 

Liza  threw  down  her  fork  and  knife  with  a  clatter. 
"  Well,  it's  been  a  banquet !  "  she  said.  "  A  banquet ! 
Jane,  if  you  get  the  gin,  I  shall  drink  your  health. 

243 


THE    BANQUET 

Here,  get  an  extra  glass  for  yourself.     I'll  stand  you 
a  sup  to  drink  my  health  in  return  with." 

"  You  know  I  never  drink  gin,"  said  Jane. 

"  No  ;  you're  a  fine  lady,  you  are.  But  you'll  not 
refuse  to  drink  my  health  ?  " 

"  Yes,   I  will,"   said  Jane,  with  downcast  eyes. 

"  It's  an  ungracious  action.  Never  mind.  Here 
goes  yours !  You  always  was  an  ungracious  creature, 
but  I  dare  say  you  means  well." 

Vrouw  Lobbers  did  not  answer. 

"  She  means  well,  I  suppose.  Dirk,  doesn't  she  ?  " 
continued  Liza,  with  a  laugh. 

"  In  course  she  means  well,"   said  Dirk  suddenly. 

The  old  woman  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  gasp.  "I'm 
going  back  to  the  house,"  she  said;  "  I  certainly  don't 
feel  comfortable.  There's  this  suffocation  coming  on 
again.  But  I've  had  a  good  time,  and  I  thank  you 
kindly,  Jane." 

She  tottered  out.  Maria  would  have  followed,  but 
Jane  imperiously  motioned  her  back.  The  three  in 
the  cottage  settled  down  to  their  several  thoughts. 
The  man  smoked;  Maria  dozed;  Jane  sat  with  an 
open  Bible  on  her  lap,  or  occasionally  got  up  and  paced 
the  floor. 

It  was  dusk  before  the  doctor  burst  into  the  room, 
his  face  inflamed. 

"What  have  you  been  giving  that  woman  to  eat  ?  " 
he  exclaimed.     "  It's  killed  her." 

"  Doctor,  it's  no  fault  of  ours,"  repHed  Vrouw 
Lobbers,  in  great  agitation.  "  She  woidi  share  our 
dinner ;  we  hadn't  thought  she  was  a-coming.  You 
heard  her ;  you  heard  her  yourself,  doctor ;  it's  no 
fault  of  ours  !  " 

244 


THE    BANQUET 

"  I  didn't  say  it  was,"  retorted  the  doctor  testily. 
"  Well,  she's  done  it,  as  I  always  said  she  would." 

Maria  burst  out  into  noisy  crying.  "  I  won't  go 
to  the  Poorhouse,"  she  sobbed.  "  I  won't,  I  won't ! 
I  won't  take  the  bath  !  " 

The  doctor  gazed  at  her  open-eyed. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  Maria,  will  you  ?  And  before 
the  doctor,  too  !  "  cried  Vrouw  Lobbers.  Then  she 
turned  to  that  gentleman.  "  Don't  mind  her,  please, 
sir  ;  she's  a  little — you  understand.  But  that  doesn't 
matter  for  the  Poorhouse,  does  it,  sir  ?  So  many  of 
them  are.  She's  down  next  in  the  list,  sir,  and  we 
recommend  her  for  the  vacancy.  Dirk — hold  your 
tongue,  Maria ! — say  we  recommend  her  for  the 
vacancy  !  " 

"  We  recommend  her  for  the  vacancy,"  said  Dirk. 


245 


"  Silly 


SILLY  sat  gazing  away  into  the  sea.  That  was 
his  usual  manner  of  spending  the  empty  mornings 
the  empty  afternoons.  Unless  his  mother  called 
him  back  to  do  some  work  for  her,  which  was  unusual, 
for  Silly  did  things  wrong. 

The  fifteen  years  of  his  lonely  life  were  like  a  placid, 
shallow,  stagnant  water,  over  which,  at  constant 
intervals,  swept,  from  daybreak  until  evening,  the 
storms  of  his  mother's  rages,  his  brothers'  and  sisters' 
teasings  and  taunts.  His  father  was  good  to  him  : 
sometimes,  when  his  mother  beat  him,  his  father  would 
bid  her  leave  off. 

He  would  creep  out  of  the  cottage,  as  often  as  he 
could,  away  among  the  sand-dunes.  He  would  linger 
there  for  hours,  and,  if  unmolested,  he  would  drift 
away  still  farther,  to  the  shore. 

"  Silly,  what  are  you  doing  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  mother." 

"  Then  leave  of^  at  once,  and  come  here." 

Sometimes  he  would  obey,  sometimes  not.  If  not, 
he  would  run  away  farther,  into  the  sand-dunes,  and 
she  would  beat  him,  late  at  night,  when  he  came  back. 
If  he  went  to  her  at  once,  she  had  forgotten,  as  often 
as  not,  for  what  reason  she  had  called  him  :  if  she 

246 


"  SILLY  " 

remembered,  and  set  him  a  task,  he  would  make  a 
mess  of  it,  and  then,  probably,  she  would  beat  him 
for  that.  She  was  hard-working  herself,  a  poor 
fisherman's  wife  with  many  children  and  many  trials  : 
for  ten  long  years  she  had  been  angry  with  God  and 
with  Silly,  that  her  eldest  child  should  have  proved 
an  impracticable  fool. 

And  when  she  saw  her  sister's  boy  of  twelve  go  out 
with  his  father  to  the  fishing,  she  hated  Silly.  On 
the  day  when  that  first  took  place,  and  they  had  extra 
coffee  and  buns,  with  gin  for  the  men,  at  the  sister's 
house,  she  broke  out  angrily,  and  would  not  allow  Silly 
to  take  his  bun  like  the  rest. 

"  Put  it  down,"  she  said. 

He  looked  at  her,  hesitating,   disinclined  to  obey. 

"  Put  it  down,"  she  said  again,  with  a  stamp  of 
her  foot. 

Then  he  did  as  he  was  told,  and  went  and  sat  among 
the  other  children,  bunless. 

In  the  evening,  when  the  shadows  were  falling  and 
the  noise  of  life  was  stilled,  perhaps  she  somewhat  re- 
pented— perhaps  she  thought  of.  her  nephew  away 
among  the  dangers  of  the  deep :  she  looked  kindly 
at  her  eldest  born,  and  made  as  if  she  would  have 
kissed  him,  but  amongst  her  sort  there  was  little  kissing 
of  big  children,  and  so  she  refrained,  ashamed.  But 
she  gave  him  a  penny  to  buy  sweets  with.  Next 
morning,  however,  Silly  had  dropped  the  penny,  and 
she  boxed  his  ears. 

There  was  considerable  excuse  for  Silly's  mother 
if  she  failed  in  tenderness  to  her  eldest  son.  Had  she 
kissed  him,  he  would  probably  not  have  understood — 
perhaps,  if  he  had  understood,  he  would  hardly  have 

247 


"  SILLY  » 

cared.  The  most  manifest  fact  about  this  clouded 
nature  was  that  he  "  didn't  notice  things,"  as  averse 
to  being  petted  as  he  was  to  being  whipped.  In  truth, 
he  had  not  sufficient  experience  of  kindly  treatment : 
slow  intellects  like  his  require  more  than  a  passing 
impression,  and  in  the  haphazard  education  of  the 
poor  a  certain  quickness  is  needed  for  a  child  to  discover 
that  his  parents  are  fond  of  him.  Silly  never  dis- 
covered or  thought  out  anything  beyond  the  immediate 
gratifications  of  the  simplest  animal  tastes.  He  cared 
about  getting  sufficient  food,  if  possible,  and  basking 
in  the  sunlight  or  near  the  winter  fire. 

And  thus  he  would  lie  for  hours  and  hours,  beyond 
farthest  reach  of  his  mother's  calling,  on  the  sands, 
in  the  golden  sunlight,  gazing  out  towards  the  sea. 

*  *  3):  *  9|C 

In  the  Chateau,  a  mile  inward,  among  the  spreading 
beeches,  sat  the  young  Countess  through  the  morning, 
with  her  hands  upon  her  lap. 

"  I  am  good  for  nothing,"  said  the  Countess. 

Her  courtly  adviser  looked  half-reproachful  sympathy 
from  the  depths  of  his  kindly  grey  eyes.  He  was  an 
English  gentleman  of  high  position,  a  well-known  and 
righteously  honoured  philanthropist :  he  had  been 
stajdng  for  a  few  days  with  the  young  Countess's 
parents  :  the  forlornness  of  her  lot  had  struck  him. 
She  was  nearly  thirty  :  she  was  not  yet  married,  nor 
likely  to  find  a  husband ;  she  sat  in  the  weary  pomp 
of  her  upbringing,  and  the  gilded  days — of  which  she 
never  perceived  the  gilding — passed  motionless,  if 
such  a  thing  can  be. 

"  Nobody,"  said  the  philanthropist,  bending  forward, 
"  ever  was  good  for  nothing  yet.     I  don't  say  there  have 

248 


"  SILLY  " 

never  been  people  who  never  found  out  what  especial 
thing  they  were  good  for — though  such  cases,  I  should 
hope,  are  rare;  but  there  certainly  never  has  been  a 
creature  of  God's  creation  that  was  good  for  nothing 
at  all." 

"  Not  even  snakes  ? "  inquired  the  young  Coun- 
tess. 

"  Not  even  snakes,"  replied  the  philanthropist, 
who  trusted  his  theory  to  pull  him  through,  though 
he  inwardly  despaired  of  his  zoology. 

"  What  use  are  snakes  ?  "  said  the  Countess. 

"  Snakes  are — are — my  dear  young  lady,  they  eat 
a  lot  of  other  harmful  animals " 

"  What  use  are  they  ?  "  interrupted  the  Countess  ; 
but  he  pretended  not  to  hear  her,  hurrying  on  : 

"  And  very  many-er-charming  objects  are  manu- 
factured out  of  their  beautiful  skins — such  as-er-purses, 
and — pocket-books " 

"  Ah,  yes,"  said  the  young  Countess,  with  sudden 
feeling,  "  some  creatures  have,  indeed,  only  one  use : 
to  die  !  " 

Her  pale  blue  eyes,  that  wandered  across  the  park, 
filled  with  silent  tears.  He  fancied  her  maudlin ; 
he  was  far  from  guessing  the  hidden  sadness  of  her 
words.  A  large  sum  of  money  had  been  left  her,  under 
trusteeship,  some  years  ago  by  an  aunt :  her  father 
wanted  the  money  ;   she  knew  it. 

"  Our  duty  is  to  live,"  he  said,  with  slight  impatience, 
"  and  to  glorify  God." 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  I  can  do  nothing,"  said  the 
Countess. 

The  distinguished  philanthropist  had  never  heard  of 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  but  he  asked  the  annoying 

249 


"  SILLY  " 

young  person  beside  him  whether  there  were  no  poor 
about  her  gates. 

"  Poor  ?  Oh,  yes,  but  the  minister's  wife  looks  after 
them,  and  tells  mamma  of  any  case  that's  especially 
bad.     I  should  be  afraid  to  speak  to  poor  people." 

"  Then  you  have  thought  over  the  matter  ?  You 
feel  it  would  be  your  duty  ?  " 

"  Everybody  does  nowadays,  don't  they  ?  It  is 
in  the  air." 

"  I  wish  it  were  !  " 

"  Oh,  not  the  doing  good !  The  feeling  that  we 
ought  to." 

"  But  if  we  discern  our  duty " 

"  Although  we  perfectly  well  know  we  can't." 

"  Scratch  my  head,"  said  the  parrot.  For  there  was 
a  parrot  in  the  room,  and  the  philanthropist  wished 
there  wasn't.  Last  night,  in  the  middle  of  the  drawing- 
room  meeting,  having  been  reinstated  by  some  mis- 
chievous nephew,  he  had  spoilt  an  eloquent  bit  of 
special  pleading  by  ejaculating  "  Humbug  !  "  in  that 
tone  of  deep  conviction  which  parrots  assume. 

The  young  Countess  laughed,  and,  rising,  obeyed 
her  favourite's  behest.  "  When  I  die,"  she  said,  "  that 
is  to  be  my  epitaph — my  Cousin  Frank  has  promised 
me — '  Here  lies  one  who  never  refused  to  scratch  her 
parrot's  head  !  '  " 

The  philanthropist  smiled,  and  shook  his  finger 
at  her. 

"  Admit  at  least  that  it  shows  a  kindly  disposition. 
Peter  is  the  single  creature  I  am  not  afraid  to  speak  to, 
the  single  creature  I  know  who  is  not  cleverer  than  I." 

"  And  you  have  repeatedly  told  me  that  you  thought 
him  very  clever." 

250 


"  SILLY  " 

"  He  is  clever  with  my  cleverness  :  so  I  can  compare. 
He  has  no  initiative,  but  he  can  do  as  he  is  told." 

"  Well,  we  came  across  a  boy  on  the  sands  yesterday 
when  I  was  out  walking  with  your  mother — a  rather 
nice-looking  boy  of  about  fifteen,  with  a  gentle,  foolish 
face.     Your  mother  said  he  was  silly." 

"  Yes,  that  is  his  name." 

"  His  name !  Poor  chap !  Well,  now,  my  dear 
young  lady,  do  as  you  are  told.  Your  mother  informed 
me  that  nobody  had  ever  tried  to  make  anything  of 
'  Silly.'  His  own  parents  ignore  or  ill  treat  him ; 
the  schoolmaster  says,  '  I  have  no  time  for  imbeciles '  ; 
the  minister  says,  '  I  have  no  time  for  irresponsibles. 
Is  my  information  correct  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly  ;  you  have  it  from  my  mother." 

"  Then  here  is  an  opportunity.      You  have  time." 

"  For  imbeciles  ?     One  has  to." 

He  looked  at  her  anxiously,  for  he  was  as  humble  as 
he  was  kind-hearted  and  shrewd.  "  Surely  you  could 
go  and  talk  to  this  boy,"  he  said,  "  and  make  him  ever 
so  little  happier  and  wiser  and  better  than  he  is." 

"  I  ?      Do  you  take  me  for  a  magician  ?  " 

"  How  so  ?  " 

"  I  could  make  him — momentarily — happier  by 
giving  him  a  penny ;  all  the  unhappier,  afterwards,  were 
his  mother  to  take  it  away.  But  '  better,'  '  wiser  '  ! 
Shall  the  blind  lead  the  blind  ?  " 

He  waited  a  moment,  looking  away.  Then  he  said 
slowly — "  Yes,  the  one  who  can  open  her  eyes  shall  lead 
the  one  who  cannot.  My  dear  young  lady,  I  have  no 
intention  of  preaching  to  you,  but  at  least,  if  you  can 
do  nothing  else,  you  can  teach  him  the  one  thing  you 
declare  yourself  to  be  clever  in.    Teach  him  to  do  as 

251 


"  SILLY  " 

he  is  told  :  a  most  useful  thing  for  one  of  his  mental 
capacity.  His  mother,  whom  we  visited,  deplored 
that  he  was  often  exceedingly  refractory.  Here  is  a 
mission  for  you." 

"  But " 

"  I  do  not  think  you  are  as  clever  in  the  one  thing 
you  are  clever  in  as  you  imagine  yourself  to  be." 

She  laughed.  "  You  have  me  there.  I  must  either 
prove  myself  mistaken  or  obey.  I  obey,  but  the 
consequences  be  upon  your  head." 

"  I  accept  them.  Would  that  I  could  always  accept 
consequences  as  gladly  !  " 

She  went  out,  still  laughing  ;  and  he,  watching  from 
the  window,  saw  her  cross  the  court. 

"  Humbug  !     Scratch  my  head,"  said  the  parrot. 

He  turned  abruptly,  walked  across  to  the  beast, 
and  scratched. 

"  I  think  you  are  wrong,"  he  said  to  the  bowing 
paiTot.  "  I  don't  think  it's  all  humbug.  You  see, 
I've  devoted  my  whole  life  to  it ;  but,  of  course,  one 
can  never  be  quite  sure." 

At  that  moment  the  old  Countess  came  in.  She 
was  not  really  old,  but  middle-aged  and  comfortable- 
looking.  "  What !  Have  you  forgiven  Polly  ?  "  she 
said,  laughing,  for  her  tact  was  of  the  kind  peculiar 
to  countesses. 

He  answered  gravely — "  I  am  earning  an  epitaph." 

"  I  see.  You  have  been  enjoying  Hilda.  She  is 
really  a  good  girl,  much  cleverer  and  kinder  than  you 
might  think " 

"  You  give  me  credit  for  little  discernment,"  he 
interrupted. 

"  But  she  has  been  brought  up  among  views  widely 
252 


"  SILLY  " 

different  from  yours.  Her  father  always  tells  her  that 
the  only  use  of  the  peasants  is  for  shooting." 

"  For  shooting  ?  " 

"  Not  for  being  shot,  of  course.  You  understand 
as  well  as  I  do," 

"  Meanwhile,  Miss  Hilda  has  gone  out  to  make  friends 
with  Silly." 

The  Countess  sat  down.  "  The  great  difficulty," 
she  said,  sighing  heavily,  "  with  a  creature  like  that 
is  to  find  him  a  fixed  occupation.  Were  he  to  earn 
something,  however  little,  I  believe  his  mother  might 
be  made  to  grow  fond  of  him.     Do  you  like  shrimps  ?  " 

"  Very  much.  I  like  all  good  things.  What  con- 
nexion have  they  to  your  idiot  ?  " 

"  None  at  all.  I  came  in  to  ask  ;  there  is  a  man 
with  them  in  the  kitchen — a  rare  opportunity ;  it  is 
so  seldom  we  can  get  fish  near  the  sea !  You  shall 
have  an  omelette  aux  crevettes  for  lunch." 

"  But  I  thought  the  people  were  fishermen  ?  " 

"  So  they  are,  but  they  have  contracts  with  big  firms, 
and  everything  is  sent  off  to  the  city." 

"  Well,  then,  here  is  a  small  beginning  for  your  protege. 
Surely  he  might  learn  a  little  shrimp-catching ;  it  is 
work  for  old  men  and  children." 

"  An  excellent  idea.  I  must  speak  to  his  mother 
about  it." 

"  I  am  going  for  a  stroll  by  the  sea  before  lunch. 
If  I  meet  Mademoiselle  Hilda,  I  will  tell  her." 

"  Oh,  blessed  omelet !  "  laughed  the  Countess. 

Meanwhile,  Hilda  walked  with  lagging  steps  along 
the  wide  sea-shore.  She  enjoyed  the  sunlit  day,  the 
far  expanse  of  sand  and  ocean  ;  she  did  not  enjoy  the 
prospect   of   Silly   somewhere   at   the   end.     She   had 

253 


"  SILLY  " 

always  felt  an  instinctive  dread  of  mental  derangement ; 
had  avoided  the  harmless  simpleton,  who  avoided 
every  one  else. 

"  I  have  brought  it  on  myself,"  she  thought.  "  I 
must  keep  up  my  reputation  for  the  only  virtue  I 
pretend  to  possess."  She  was  very  fond  of  the  English 
guest,  an  old  friend  of  her  mother's.  "  I  do  not  think 
he  does  any  positive  harm,"  said  the  Count. 

Sniy  sat  on  a  sand-dune  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  village,  for  his  mother  had  told  him  to  "  clear  out  " 
that  morning ;  so  he  felt  comparatively  safe.  He 
saw  the  young  Countess  coming,  but  did  not  run  away 
from  her,  as  the  last  thing  he  would  have  considered 
likely  was  that  she  should  address  him.  His  world 
did  not  include  her — it  included  barely  half  a  dozen 
human  beings — but  he  touched  his  cap,  as  did  every 
one,  as  she  passed. 

"  Good  morning,"  said  the  Countess,  and,  to  their 
common  perturbation,  she  sat  down. 

Silly  did  not  answer,  being  too  shy. 

"  What  a  fine  morning  it  is  !  "  presently  continued 
the  Countess ;  this  remark  Silly  considered  exceedingly 
foolish. 

The  Countess  dug  deep  down  into  her  intelligence. 
"  What  is  your  favourite  amusement  ?  "  she  began, 
following  the  rules  she  had  learnt  for  conversation. 

"  No,"  replied  Silly,  meaning  he  had  none,  or  couldn't 
understand,  or  think  it  out.     "  Have  you  ?  " 

"  Philanthropy,"  answered  Hilda  promptly.  "  If 
you  had  a  little  toy  boat  you  could  sail  it  on  the  sea." 

"  Jan's  on  the  sea.     I  mayn't,"  said  Sill>. 

"  Who  is  Jan  ?  " 

"  Jan's  Jan,  Aunt  Mary's  son.     He's  httler'n  me." 

254 


"  SILLY  » 

"  Are  you  fond  of  Jan  ?  " 

"No.     He  hits  me.     But  I'm  stronger 'n  him." 

"  Then  why  don't  you  hit  back  ?  "  queried  Hilda 
curiously,  rather  forgetting  her  mission. 

"  Cos  I'm  stronger.     'Twouldn't  be  fair." 

"  Dear  me  !  "     She  was  thoughtful  for  a  moment. 
"  That  doesn't  sound  a  bit  like  other  boys." 

"  Mother  says  I'm  not  like  other  boys.     I'm  silly." 

"  True,"  said  Hilda,  thinking  aloud.  "  If  you  weren't 
silly,  you'd  only  hit  what  was  weaker  than  you." 

"  I'll  remember  that,"  said  Silly. 

Then  she  realized  that  she  was  making  a  mess  of 
things. 

"  My  dear  boy,"  she  explained,  "  you  mustn't  mind 
what  I  say.     You  don't  understand." 

Silly  got  up.     "  I'm  going,"  he  said. 

"  Where  to  ?  " 

He  pointed  to  a  neighbouring  dune. 

"  I'll  come  with  you,"  said  Hilda. 

The  boy  sat  down  again.     "  That's  what  I  was  going 
for,"  he  said. 

She    coloured    violently.     "  But,"     she    protested, 
"  I — I  want  to  do  something  for  you.     Is  there  nothing 
I  could  do  ?     I — I  am  the  Countess  Hilda,  you  know. 
Is  there  nothing  you  would  like  ?  " 

"No,"  he  said.     "Yes.     Scratch  my  back." 

The    Countess    recoiled.     "  You    can    do    that    for 
yourself,"  she  said. 

"  No,  I  can't,"  he  said  obstinately.     "  I  can't  reach 
to  it." 

"  Everybody  can.    Try." 

Again  he  prepared  to  slouch  off.    The  image  of  the 
Englishman  rose  before  her — she  seemed  to  see  his  smile. 

255 


"  SILLY  " 

"  Sit  down  !  "  she  said  desperately.  "  I'll  rub 
your  back  if  you'll  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say." 

So  she  moved  her  gloved  hand  to  and  fro  across  his 
jacket,  while  she  preached  him  a  brief  little  homUy 
about  being  gentle  and  good  and  kind.  He  did  not 
understand  two  words  of  it.  But  when  she  stopped 
for  a  moment — the  rubbing,  not  the  talking — he  said, 
"  Go  on." 

"  If  you  was  my  mother  would  you  be  good  to  me  ?  " 
he  interrupted  suddenly,  that  consideration  having 
penetrated  his  sluggish  brain. 

"  Now  had  she  said  "  No,"  what  had  become  of  her 
homily  ?     So  she  said  "  Yes." 

"  You  wouldn't  have  beaten  me  ?  " 

"  N-no,"  she  repUed,  feeling  disloyal. 

"  I  should  Hke  to  come  and  hve  with  you." 

She  sat  silent  in  the  face  of  this  emergency. 

"  But  your  mother  doesn't  beat  you  when  you're 
good,"  she  began  feebly.  "  That's  why,  as  I  was 
saying,  you  should  always  be  obedient  and  good." 

"  She  beats  me  'cos  I'm  not  clever,"  he  answered 
sullenly.     "  Are  you  clever  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  promptly.  "  But,  of  course, 
I  know  a  great  many  things  you  don't." 

"  Do  ye  ?  "  he  said  doubtingly.  "  I  know  a  great 
many  things  nobody  knows.  I  know  them  all  my- 
self." 

"  What  sort  of  things  ?  " 

"  About  the  sea,  and  the  birds,  and  the  creeping 
things.  They  come  and  tell  me.  Mother  knows  nothing 
about  'em.  She  says  the  sea's  just  the  sea.  And 
she  wants  to  teach  me  to  do  a  lot  o'  things  I  can't  do. 
And  they  say  I'm  stupid." 

256 


"  SILLY  " 

"  You    poor   fellow  !  "  exclaimed   Hilda,   with    tears 

in  her  eyes. 

He  glanced  up  quickly,  saw  them,  and  from  that 
moment  his  whole  expression  changed. 

"  You  must  try  and  do  what  she  tells  you,"  con- 
tinued the  Countess.  "People  like  you  and  me,  who 
are  not  particularly  clever  about  managing  things 
for  ourselves,  cannot  do  better  than  just  simply  leave 
others  to  arrange  everything  for  us." 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  S'lly,  with  clouded  brow. 

"  When  you  don't  know  v/ljat  to  do,  do  just  what 
you're  told  to  do     You  understand  that  ?  " 

"  P'raps." 

"  You'll  be  much  happier.  You  know  you  cannot 
find  out  for  yourself,  S "      She  checked  the  word. 

"  D'ye  mean  to  say  I  must  do  whatever  she  tells  me  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Whew  !  Well,  nobody  spoke  ever  to  me  like 
you  before  :  it  sounds  nice.     P'raps  I'll  try." 

"  Do.  Come,  shall  we  walk  home  together  ? " 
She  got  up  from  the  sandhill  ;  together  they  strolled 
along  the  beach.  He  picked  up  a  couple  of  shells  and 
gave  them  her,  common  shells,  such  as  any  one  might 
pick  up,  and  none  but  a  child  or  a  fool  would  keep. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said,  stopping,  when  the  cottages 
were  a  few  yards  off. 

"  Why  don't  you  call  me  by  my  name,  please  ?  " 
was  his  unexpected  reply. 

"Because  I  don't  know  it,"  s?ie  answered  uncom- 
fortably. 

"  Why,  it's  '  Silly.'     You  know,  it's  '  SiUy.'  " 

She   colourr-d   again.     "  Good-b3'e,   Silly,"   she  said, 
and  held  out  her  hand,  which  he  took  awkwardly. 
^'  257 


"  SILLY  " 

"  Remember,"  she  said,  "  and  if  you  don't  want  to 
do  what  she  tells  you,  ask  God  to  make  you  want." 

"  P'raps."  He  was  slouching  off,  when  the  Enghsh- 
man  came  round  the  comer. 

"  I  have  been  looking  for  you,"  said  the  Englishman. 
"  I  have  an  idea  for  this  poor  boy.  He  is  to  learn 
shrimp-catching,  an  easy  work.  Let  us  go  and  tell 
his  mother." 

So  they  went,  and  the  mother  was  delighted  at  any 

chance  of  the  lad's  earning  a  trifle.     Silly,  too,  was 

delighted — naturally — for    the    highest    aspiration    of 

his  life  was  to  get  nearer  than  possible  to  the  sea. 
*  *  *  ♦  * 

In  the  evening,  an  hour  before  sundown,  he  started, 
accompanied  by  his  younger  cousin  Jan.  All  the 
afternoon  the  pair  had  been  busy  with  an  old  shrimp- 
catcher  who  lived  near  them,  learning  :  and,  though 
Silly  still  felt  shaky,  Jan  had  fully  mastered  the  very 
simple  trick.  A  net  had  been  borrowed,  and,  attired 
in  the  old  shrimper's  oilskin  bags,  a  sadly  comic  figure, 
Silly  now  sallied  forth. 

"  Mind  you  don't  make  a  fool  of  yourself,"  said  his 
mother.     "  Do  what  Jan  tells  you,  mind." 

"  I  mind." 

"  I  must  go  out  to-night  with  father,"  said  Jan 
importantly. 

"  You  have  plenty  of  time  to  go  with  Silly  first. 
You  can  have  a  penny  of  what  he  earns,"  said  the 
mother,  going  in. 

So  they  trudged  along  the  sands,  to  a  far-away  spot 
where  no  one  would  disturb  them,  and  Silly  went  into 
the  water,  triumphantly  pushing  the  net  in  front  of 
him.       It  was  the  happiest  moment  of  his  hfe. 

258 


"  SILLY  " 

Jan  directed  him  from  the  shore  with  much  super- 
fluous superiority,  and  he  drove  his  net  along  in  the 
calm  grey  water,  under  the  fading  light.  But  they 
caught  no  shrimps. 

After  a  time  the  interest  began  to  pall.  "  I'll  tell 
you  what,"  cried  Jan  from  the  shore.  "  I'll  just 
run  home  and  get  things  ready.  You  stop  here  till 
I  come  back,  mind." 

"  In  the  water  ?  "  cried  Silly.     "  P'raps." 

"  Mind  you  do.  I'll  only  be  a  minute.  Didn't 
your  mother  say  you  was  to  do  exactly  as  I  said  ? 
If  you  stir  I'll  tell  her,  and  she'll  lick  you." 

"  I  don't  mind  that !  "  cried  Silly. 

"  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  stay  and  catch  'em  !  " 
shouted  Jan,  most  mindful  of  his  penny. 

"  How  am  I  to  catch  them  ?     I  wish  I  could  !  " 

"  Go  in  farther,  you  fool !  "  cried  Jan,  running  off. 

At  his  own  door  his  father  waylaid  him,  and,  heedless 
of  his  familiar  protests,  sent  him  a  mile  away  for  some 
particular  gin. 

But  Silly  propelled  his  net  through  the  darkening 
water,  catching  nothing. 

A  visitor  to  the  village  inn  passed  on  his  homeward 
way.  He  knew  the  boy  was  a  simpleton,  and  the 
simpletons  of  this  world  are  fair  game,  always. 

"  What  are  you  doing  there  ?  "  he  questioned. 

"  Catching  shrimps,"  came  the  answer. 

"  How  many  have  you  caught  ?  " 

"  None." 

The  stranger  laughted.  "  You  don't  know  how  to 
catch  'em,"  he  said,  and  then  an  idea  struck  him.  "  You 
don't  know  what  to  say." 

"  Say  ?  " 

259 


"  SILLY  " 

"  Say,  of  course.     The  shrimps  won't  come  unless 

you    call    'em.     Every    fisherman    knows    that.     You 

must  sing,  so  that  they  hear  you 

"  '  Shrimp,  shrimp,  come  and  feed, 
God  grant  me  all  my  need  ! '  " 

"  Old  Kobus  never  told  me  !  " 

"  Then  old  Kobus,  whoever  he  is,  is  a  fool." 

"  But  there  isn't  any  food  in  the  net." 

"  Never  mind  ;  do  you  know  your  song  ?  " 

"  No." 

And  the  stranger  had  to  repeat  it  several  times 
before  Silly  pretended  to  have  learnt  it.  Then  the 
stranger,  in  the  twilight,  laughed  his  way  home. 

Silly  went  on,  pushing  his  net,  and  singing.  What 
he  sang  was — 

"  Shrimp — shrimp — all  my  need  !  " 

for  that  was  all  he  remembered.  It  grew  slowly  dark, 
and  the  water  was  very  cold.  He  got  sick  of  the  weary 
labour,  and  pushed  his  way  towards  the  shore. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  Countess  Hilda's  words  of  that 
morning  blazed  up  in  his  mind.  They  were  the  only 
kind  words  that  had  ever  been  spoken  to  him  by  a 
stranger.  He  must  always  obey  his  mother,  and  his 
mother — or  Jan  in  his  mother's  name — had  ordered 
him  to  stay.  He  must  obey  Jan.  He  went  back  into 
the  chilling  water.  He  was  very  unwilling  to  do  it, 
but  again  he  remembered  the  Countess'  words,  and 
he  said,  "  God,  make  me  want !  "  The  stars  came  out. 
The  long  line  of  coast  grew  dim.  The  rippling  waves 
crept  forward  as  the  tide  began  to  turn.  He  pushed 
his  net  in  front  of  him,  the  unwieldy  oilskins  clinging 
in  lumps  about  his  limbs.  And  he  sang,  in  a  weary, 
hesitating  chant,  "  Shrimp — shrimp — all  I  need." 

260 


"  SILLY  " 

At  the  Chateau,  in  the  cheerful  dinmg-room,  all 
lights  and  laughter,  the  young  Countess  Hilda  smiled 
upon  the  grave  philanthropist.  "I  am  so  thankful 
to  you,"  she  said,  with  sparkling  eyes.  "  You  have 
done  a  good  work  to-day.  I  feel  very  happy  whenever 
I  think  of  that  poor  boy  :  after  all,  you  are  right ; 
there  is  nobody  good  for  nothing." 

In  the  rising  water,  deadly  cold,  with  blackness  all 
around  him,  but  for  half  a  dozen  watching,  stars,  so 
high  above.  Silly  pushed  his  empty  net  and  sang 
his  empty  song.  Sometimes  he  sang  it  low,  for 
weariness;  sometimes,  when  the  thought  of  the 
Countess  came  upon  him,  he  sang  it  loud,  for  hope. 
He  was  doing  what  she  wished  him  to  do.  The 
water  was  all  about  him  :  it  was  very  cold  and  dark 
and  horrible — he  was  very  frightened.  But  then  he 
was  only  silly,  and  couldn't  manage  things  — or  under- 
stand. He  must  wait  till  Jan  came  back,  and  do  as 
he  was  told — obey. 

The  water  was  at  his  throat.  He  stopped  pushing 
and  singing. 

"  Shrimp — shrimp — all  I  need  !  "  And  a  great 
wave  from  God  arose  on  the  breast  of  the  waters  and 
swept  over  them,  into  stillness  and  peace. 

For  He  heareth  prayer. 


261 


The   Minister's  Dog 

THE  minister  stood  alone  beneath  the  falling  sha- 
dows, a  black  speck  on  the  long  white  length  of 
lonely  dyke.  Before  him,  where  the  wide  water  had 
swelled  bravely  to  greet  him  on  his  first  coming  to  this 
his  first  charge  three  months  ago — before  him  now  lay 
the  dead  ice-crust,  grey  and  still,  with  the  still  grey  pall 
spread  motionless  above  it,  grey  on  grey,  stillness  on 
stillness,  by  the  long  gleam  of  the  snow-stilled  dyke. 

The  minister  sighed,  and  then  coughed  hastily, 
ashamed,  to  himself,  of  the  sigh.  Earth  and  sky  were 
very  big  and  very  empty.  The  minister  was  very 
young. 

He  was  returning,  with  laggard  step,  from  the  steam- 
boat station,  whither  he  had  just  escorted  his  mother. 
The  mother  is  a  pastor's  widow,  away  in  Amsterdam, 
vainly  striving,  amid  the  claims  of  five  young  children, 
to  join  two  inelastic  ends.  After  a  Christmas-tree  at 
home,  sparsely  hung,  but  love-lit  and  love-laden,  she 
had  hurried  across  to  spend  the  last  day  of  the  festival 
with  her  wistful  eldest.  She  had  brought  a  cake  and 
compound  affection,  compressed — like  Liebig. 

He  was  a  three-months'  minister.  He  had  ideals. 
She  had  listened  patiently  to  all  his  complainings,  and 
she  had  not  told  him  more  than  once  that  he  was  young 

262 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

and  must  learn.  But  she  had  resolutely  steered  his 
thoughts  towards  the  sunshine,  and  had  dilated  on  the 
lights  and  shadows  of  the  other  children's  complicated 
existence,  especially  the  lights. 

The  minister's  brothers  and  sisters  are  of  no  interest 
to  any  one,  excepting  to  themselves,  and  their  mother, 
and  the  minister. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  present  from  the  children," 
said  the  colourless  little  woman,  rapidly  passing  in  re- 
view the  minister's  scanty  wardrobe.  "  It  will  come 
up  this  evening  from  the  boat  station  to  comfort  you 
when  I  am  gone." 

The  minister  muttered  the  word  "  extravagance," 
and  began  to  inquire  all  over  again  concerning  Adrian, 
the  youngest,  who  had  hip  disease,  and  whose  Christmas 
present,  of  late  years,  had  been  an  expensive  visit  to  a 
Leyden  professor,  the  painful  probing  of  a  wound. 

"  But  this  time  he  says  it  is  doing  splendidly,"  ex- 
plained the  little  mother,  beaming.  "  In  a  year  or  two, 
he  says,  there  will  only  be  a  little  lameness  left." 

"  He  will  never  be  able  to  run  with  Nero,"  said  the 
minister. 

Nero  was  a  black  retriever,  saved  from  drowning,  as 
a  pup,  by  the  minister's  sudden  leap  into  the  water — he 
was  a  student  in  those  days — and  given  by  him  to  the 
invalid,  whom  everybody  petted. 

"  He  doesn't  want  to  run  with  Nero,"  replied  the 
mother  shortly. 

The  minister  turned  along  the  dyke.  That  morning 
he  had  preached  his  first  Christmas  sermon.  It  had 
been  all  about  peace  and  goodwill. 

He  was  thinking,  as  he  walked,  of  the  squabbles  and 
263 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

struggles  that  j&lled  the  httle  fishing  village  from  end  to 
end.  Three  months  ago  he  would  have  deemed  it  im- 
possible that  so  much  envy,  jealousy,  and  mahce  could 
be  contained  in  a  community  of  twelve  hundred  souls, 
including  women  and  children. 

Oh,  undoubtedly,  including  the  women  ! 

He  reflected,  as  his  black  leet  went  crunching  the  calm 
snow.  There  were  the  two  Doyerfeld  faraiUes,  well-to- 
do,  important,  all-pervading,  who  had  never  exchanged 
a  word  since,  five  and  twenty  years  ago,  John  Doyerfeld 
had  struck  his  nephew  for  some  boyish  freak.  They 
were  religious  people,  all  of  them,  communicants. 
White-haired  Pete  Doyerfeld  glowered  at  white-haired 
John  Doyerfeld  across  the  holy  table.  The  quarrel  was 
the  interest  and  the  pride  of  their  lives. 

There  was  the  baker,  Jan  Blass,  whose  weights  had 
been  found  wanting,  and  who,  therefore,  made  unresting 
war  on  the  assizer  ;  there  were  the  Hockmans,  who  only 
hated  their  neighbours  (four  deep),  and  the  Bartels,  who 
hated  everybody  indiscriminately.  There  were  aU  the 
members  of  the  parish  council,  at  daggers'  ends  about  a 
question  of  tenpenny  perquisites  ;  there  was  the  excise- 
man, near  the  church,  who  restricted  his  animosity  to 
church-goers,  because  of  a  vainly-contested  right  of  way. 

Amongst  all  these  dissentients  the  minister  had 
stumbled  blindly.  At  first  he  had  foolishly  beheved 
himself  merely  a  spectator,  till  suddenly  he  discovered 
that  he  was  exchanging  blows  with  the  whole  lot  of 
them. 

Jan  Blass  had  refused  to  attend  church  again,  after 
the  very  first  Sunday,  because  the  new  minister  had 
"  spoken  slightingly  of  The  Blood  "  ;  TeerHng,  the  great 
smuggling  contractor,  had  withdrawn  his  subscription 

264 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

to  the  Poor  Fund  because  one  of  the  Doyerfelds,  and 
not  Teerhng's  son,  had  been  elected  deacon  ;  and  the 
old  widow  of  Claus  Hockman,  that  most  evil-tongued 
of  old  widows,  had  publicly  rated  the  "  Dominie  "  for 
declaring  from  the  pulpit  that  "  all  men  may  obtain 
salvation,"  thereby  "  making  God  Almighty  a  puppet 
at  every  sinner's  beck  and  call," 

The  Dominie  sighed  again,  and  this  time  he  forgot  to 
cough.  He  was  passing  a  trim  little  green-shuttered 
house  on  the  outskirts  of  the  straggling  village.  He 
hesitated. 

"  I  shall  venture  this  very  day  !  "  he  said,  half  aloud. 
"  What  a  coward  I  am  !  And  they  can't  make  me  feel 
more  miserable  than  I  do." 

He  walked  up  the  narrow  path,  between  some  brown 
rhododendron  bushes,  and  rang  the  bell — an  inhospitable, 
irresponsively  shrill  little  ting.  It  was  answered  im- 
mediately by  a  female,  all  angles,  like  a  vinegar  cruet 
well  filled. 

"  Miss  Kezia  Vandonderboom  ?  "  said  the  Dominie. 

"  That  is  my  name,"  replied  the  spinster  sharply, 
"  unless  you  have  some  serious  objection.  It  seems  to 
me  as  good  as  any  other." 

Long  ago  the  then  youthful  Miss  Kezia  had  sought 
refuge  in  defiance  from  incessant  ridicule. 

The  naming  of  his  daughters  had  been  the  one  stroke 
of  humour  in  Jaap  Vandonderboom's  long  hen-pecked 
existence.  After  seven  years  of  married  life  twin  girls 
had  been  born  to  this  patient  Job.  He  came  back  from 
the  registrar's  to  his  wife's  bedside. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  the  wife. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Jaap.  "  I  haven't  given  'em  the 
265 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

names  we  agreed  on.  I  told  'im  to  call  'em  Jemima  and 
Kezia — I  told  'im." 

The  wife  sat  up. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  fools  !  "  she  cried  in  a  faint  fury. 
"  But,  fool  as  you  are,  I  don't,  for  the  Hfe  o'  me,  under- 
stand." 

The  long-suffering  husband  grinned. 

"No  more  do  I,"  he  responded,  "  but  the  registrar 
did." 

"  May  I  come  in  ?  "  asked  the  Dominie. 

"  Oh,  if  you  want  to,"  said  Miss  Kezia,  "  of  course." 

In  the  parlour,  by  a  close  stove,  sat  Miss  Jemima.  She 
was  exactly  like  Miss  Kezia,  except  that,  being  para- 
lysed, she  always  sat,  while  Miss  Kezia,  being  energetic, 
mostly  stood. 

"  I  wanted  to  speak  about  that  pew,"  began  the  young 
minister,  after  the  perfunctory  preliminaries. 

Miss  Kezia  stopped  him  with  uplifted  finger  by  her 
sister's  chair. 

"  Then  you  needn't,"  she  said,  "  for  it's  no  use,  young 
man.     We  shall  keep  those  two  sittings  till  we  die." 

"  But  you  know  how  matters  stand,"  pleaded  the 
Dominie.  "  Isaac  Bartel  and  his  wife  have  stayed  away 
from  service  since  last  Easter,  because  their  two  children, 
that  were  then  confirmed,  can't  sit  in  the  same  pew  with 
them.  There's  not  another  vacant  in  the  building,  and 
your  two  seats  adjoining  theirs  have  not  been  occupied 
for  years." 

The  Dominie  paused  ;  it  sounded  so  simple,  so  logi- 
cal. 

"  We  shall  keep  those  sittings  till  we  die,"  said  Miss 
Kezia.     Miss  Jemima  nodded. 

266 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

"  And  never  come  to  church  again  ?  "  questioned  the 
Dominie,  losing  strength. 

"  My  sister  Jemima  can't  come,  for  she's  paralysed,"' 
responded  Miss  Kezia,  with  asperity.  "  And  I  can't 
come  because  you  preach  Arminianism.  Jemima  'd 
come  fast  enough  if  she  could.     She's  Arminian." 

"  It  sounds  very  contrary,"  said  the  Dominie  plain- 
tively. 

Miss  Jemima  intervened.  "  A  body  can't  help  that," 
said  Miss  Jemima.  "  God  Almighty's  ways  aren't  our 
ways.  We've  always  been  '  contraried '  about  our 
church  sittings.  At  Wyk,  where  we  lived  before  we 
came  here,  there  were  two  ministers  that  preached 
alternate,  and  one  was  Arminian,  and  one  was  pretty 
well  orthodox.  We  could  only  afford  one  sitting  then, 
and  we  took  it  in  turns.  The  very  first  Sunday  we  drew 
lots,  and  Kezia  got  first  turn,  and — would  you  believe 
it  ? — bless  me  if  the  Arminian  didn't  get  up  and  preach !  " 

"  How  did  you  manage  ?  "  asked  the  Dominie,  with 
sudden  interest,  his  eyes  a-twinkle. 

"  Never  went  to  church,  of  course,  for  seven  months 
and  more,  till  the  orthodox  man  had  a  cold  in  his  head 
one  Sunday,  and  so  the  turns  came  right." 

"  But  surely  you  might  have  exchanged,"  expostu- 
lated the  Dominie. 

"  A  turn's  a  turn,"  interposed  Kezia  ;  "  and  hadn't 
we  drawn  lots  ?  God  Almighty's  ways  aren't  our  ways. 
But  you  won't  get  those  two  sittings  from  us,  not  if 
you  talk  till  doomsday.  We  keep  those  two  sittings, 
Jemima  and  I,  till  we  exchange  them  for  seats  up 
above  !  "     She   pointed  with  corkscrew  finger. 

"  I  do  believe  you  think  there's  some  connexion !  " 
cried  the  Dominie,  aghast. 

267 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

"  I  don't  say  that.  You  can  make  a  dumb  book  say 
what  it  don't,  Dominie,  but  you  can't  a  Hving  woman. 
We  keep  our  seats  in  church,  Jemima  and  I  ;  we're  not 
heathens  nor  Jews,  but  baptized  and  church-member 
Christians,  and  as  much  as  that  we  can  say,  with  the 
sittings  to  prove  it,  when  our  day  of  reckoning  comes  !  " 

The  Dominie  rose,  rather  violently. 

"  Three  florins  per  sitting,"  chimed  in  Miss  Jemima. 
"  Six  florins  per  annum,  paid  punctually  for  seventeen 
years  come  next  January.  One  hundred  and  two 
florins,  and  nothing  to  show  for  it.  That's  all  I  say 
about  it.  I  don't  go  no  further.  What  a  mint  of  money, 
and  nothing  to  show  for  it — on  earth  !  " 

"  Isaac  Bartel's  empty  seats  to  show  for  it !  "  cried 
the  minister.  "  I'm  not  defending  Bartel's  behaviour. 
All  I  say  is :  It  is  impossible  but  that  occasions  of 
stumbhng  should  come.  But  woe  unto  him  through 
whom  they  come  !  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  that  was  addressed  to  the  shepherds,  not 
to  the  sheep,"  cried  Miss  Kezia,  as  she  followed  her  pastor 
out  into  the  hall.  "  And  a  very  solemn  warning  it  is 
to  all  ministers.  Dominie.  You're  exceedingly  young  ; 
but  one  day  you'll  say  to  yourself  with  tears  (God  grant 
it !)  :  '  Woe  unto  him  through  whom  offences  come  !  '  " 

The  Dominie  hurried  homewards.  Over  the  darken- 
ing landscape  damp  mists  feU  cold.  He  shivered  as  he 
passed  the  hovel  of  Bram  Stap,  the  cobbler,  the  village 
terror,  from  which  echoed  the  shouts  and  oaths  of  a 
drunken  brawl.  And  as  he  passed  the  respectable  white 
house  of  respectable  white-haired  John  Doyerfeld  he 
shivered  again. 

In  this  village,  according  to  immemorial  custom,  the 
church  bell  was  rung  at  intervals  throughout  the  Feast 

268 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

of  the  Nativity.  He  listened  to  it  now.  "  Peace  and 
goodwill,"  he  said ;  "  Peace  and  goodwill.  Well,  I 
can't  help  it."  From  the  distance  the  parsonage 
twinkled  across  the  snow.  It  was  utterly,  miserably 
empty. 

At  the  door  his  one  servant  stood  peering  anxiously 
out.  His  mother  had  recently  procured  this  person  for 
him.  It  was  the  person's  duty  to  be  old,  unattractive, 
self-willed,  and  absolutely  trustworthy.  She  did  her 
duty. 

"  Dominie  !  Dominie  !  "  she  cried  shrilly  from  the 
step.  "  There's  the  most  terrible  creature  arrived  for 
you,  done  up  in  a  basket !  And  if  it's  your  mother  that 
sent  it,  as  the  boatman  was  saying — Lord,  one  can't 
understand  such  goings  on  of  so  sensible-seeming  a 
creature  !  " 

The  Dominie  pushed  past. 

"  I've  been  out  a-perishing  with  cold  for  the  last  hour 
and  a  half  !  "  continued  the  old  lady  behind  him.  "  I 
couldn't  'a'  ventured  to  stay  in  the  house  with  it,  for 
fear  it  should  break  loose.  And  to  hsten  to  its  bowlings 
and  moanings  is  enough  to  make  a  body's  blood  turn 
black." 

"  The  drugget  looks  strong  enough,"  said  the  Do- 
minie calmly.  "  You  must  be  unusually  nervous  about 
animals,  Mina."  He  stood  in  the  passage,  under  the 
oil  lamp,  looking  down  upon  the  big  basket  securely 
covered  with  cloth.  Scarcely  had  he  begun  to  speak 
when  the  bowlings  ceased,  and  the  basket  heaved  to 
and  fro  in  a  series  of  ungainly  jumps  and  tossings. 

"  Get  me  a  knife,  please,"  said  the  Dominie.  He  took 
up  an  envelope  addressed  in  his  brother  Adrian's  boyish 
sprawl,  and  broke  the  seal. 

269 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

"  Dear  brother,"  said  the  letter,  "  we  send  you 
'  Nero.'  We  don't  want  him,  for  we're  plenty  company 
among  ourselves.  Besides,  we  couldn't  keep  him  any- 
way, for  there's  a  new  dog  tax  to  be  levied  next  year  of 
five  florins,  so  mother  says  we  should  have  to  sell  him 
anyway." 

The  letter,  in  the  lame  boy's  writing,  was  signed  by 
the  whole  family. 

"  Wait,  Dominie,  please,  till  I've  locked  myself  into 
the  kitchen,"  expostulated  Mina,  as  her  master  began  to 
cut  the  string. 

He  obediently  hesitated,  but  a  moment  later,  in  the 
expectant  silence  of  the  narrow  passage,  as  the  drugget 
fell  aside,  the  great  silken  mass  of  the  black  retriever 
poured  forth  in  a  sudden  leap,  all  over  the  Dominie,  up- 
setting him  on  to  the  floor  and  overflowing  him,  neck 
and  shoulders,  under  a  torrent  of  embraces  and  the 
constantly  recurring  flashes  of  a  bright  red  tongue. 

"  Nero  !  "  said  the  Dominie,  "  Nero  !  Nero  !  Nero  !  " 

That  was  all  he  said. 

II 

The  New  Year  was  four  months  old  already.  Its  snowy 
coverlet  had  long  ago  melted  away  from  it.  Already  it 
sat  up  in  bed  and  smiled. 

In  the  pastor's  study,  with  its  red  curtains  and  rud- 
dier firelight,  all  looked  warm  and  cosy.  On  the  rug 
lay  Nero,  his  nose  between  his  fore-paws,  his  whole  soft 
figure  shapeless  with  slothful  repose.  By  the  writing- 
table  sat  the  Dominie,  his  face  upon  his  hands, 
thinking. 

Life  was  easier  now  for  the  Dominie  in  many  ways. 
270 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

Not  that  his  people  had  grown  easier  to  handle,  or  that 
he  had  grown  wiser  in  the  handling,  but  he  thought  he 
had  grown  wiser,  and  that  is  a  great  thing.  In  all 
humility  he  did  his  best. 

And  Nero  kept  him  company. 

He  had  resolved  some  weeks  ago,  with  youthful  con- 
fidence, to  desist  from  his  earlier  platitudes  regarding 
evil  in  general,  and  to  preach  to  his  own  congregation 
about  their  own  besetting  sins.  He  did  not  expect  them 
to  like  it,  but  he  expected  it  to  do  them  good.  He  was 
mistaken.  They  liked  it.  Each  of  them  liked  hearing 
about  his  neighbour's  sins. 

To  mitigate  somewhat  the  appearance  of  personal 
allusion,  he  had  hit  on  a  plan  which  he  considered  in- 
genious. He  had  announced  from  the  pulpit  that  a  box 
would  be  placed  at  the  church  door  to  receive  any 
suggestions  of  imperfectly  comprehended  texts  that  any 
member  of  the  congregation  might  care  to  make. 

The  plan  did  not  work  very  successfully.  The 
minister  might  have  taken  warning  from  an  old  friend 
of  his  own  grandfather's,  who  had  laid  a  wager  that  he 
would  preach  a  good  impromptu  sermon  from  any  text 
he  found  upon  his  pulpit  cushion.  When  the  day  came 
a  scrap  of  paper  awaited  him.  He  took  it  up,  saw  no- 
thing written  on  the  one  side,  turned  it  round,  saw 
nothing  written  on  the  other.  He  faced  the  grinning 
congregation  with  folded  arms.  "  Nothing  ?  "  he  said. 
"  Nothing  ?     '  Behold,    thou   sayest,    I   have   need   of 

nothing,  and  knowest  not '     You  wall  find  my  text 

in  Revelation  iii.  17  "  ;  and  he  poured  down  upon  them 
such  a  stream  of  denunciation  as  singed  their  callosity 
with  the  very  flames  of  hell. 

On  three  several  occasions  of  late,  when  going  to  un- 
271 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

lock  his  box,  the  Dominie  had  found  it  to  contain  the 
selfsame  verse  in  varied  handwriting  :  "  Woe  unto  him 
through  whom  offences  come." 

One  of  the  papers  he  knew  to  be  Miss  Kezia's ;  but, 
then,  he  was  not  acquainted  with  Miss  Jemima's  cali- 
graphy,  nor  with  the  pothooks  and  hangers  of  the 
sisters'  rheumatic  old  maid. 

"  I  cannot  imagine  what  it  means,"  said  the  minister 
to  himself  for  the  twentieth  time.  He  gazed  down  on 
the  little  paper  he  had  brought  home  with  him  that 
afternoon.  He  could  not  make  it  out  at  all.  He  knew 
not  what  to  do. 

So  he  threw  himself  down  on  the  carpet  and  romped 
with  Nero. 

A  knock  at  the  door  disturbed  him.  The  minister 
disentangled  himself  from  the  canine  confusion  all  over 
him,  and  shook  out  his  rumpled  black  clothes.  He 
wondered  what  his  hair  looked  like  as  he  called,  "  Come 
in!" 

"  John  Doyerfeld  is  asking  to  see  you,"  announced 
Mina,  who  never  spoke  of  any  one  as  "  Mynheer,"  "  but 
he  won't  cross  the  threshold,  he  declares,  till  he's  assured 
that  there  dog's  locked  up."  And  Mina  cast  a  mur- 
derous glance,  like  a  blow,  at  Nero,  which  she  hated. 
The  dog  winced. 

"  Go  into  the  bedroom,  Nero,  and  shut  the  door  after 
you,"  said  his  master. 

The  dog  obeyed. 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is  this,"  said  John  Doyerfeld, 
standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.  He  was  very  spare 
and  neat  and  respectable,  black-coated,  white-tied,  and 
white-haired.  "  What  I  want  to  know  is  just  merely 
this — and,  as  an  elder  of  the  church,  I  have  a  claim  to 

272 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

be  answered.  When  you  preached  last  Sacrament 
Sunday  about  leaving  one's  gift  before  the  altar,  did  you 
mean  me  ?  " 

"  I  meant  every  one  who  has  not  forgiven  his  brother. 
So  did  Christ.  All  the  worse  for  you,  John  Doyerfeld, 
if  you  are  one  of  those  Christ  meant." 

"  Dominie,  you  are  insolent !  " 

"  So,  then,  was  my  Lord  and  Master,"  cried  the  young 
minister,  white  to  the  lips. 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  " 

"  And  an  elder  in  Israel  bade  them  smite  Him  on  the 
mouth." 

John  Doyerfeld  grasped  his  hat  tight. 

"  That  ever  I  should  live,"  he  said,  turning  away, 
"  to  hear  blasphemy  in  this  house  from  a  minister  of  the 
Gospel !  Well,  well,  truly  hath  our  Saviour  spoken  : 
*  It  is  impossible  but  that  offences  should  come  ! '  " 
He  hesitated  by  the  door.  "  Is  that  villanous  dog  of 
yours  safely  out  of  the  way  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  Dominie  nodded,  unable  to  speak. 

The  oft-repeated  text,  striking  him  once  again  from 
John  Doyerfeld' s  lips,  seemed  to  weigh  down  his  soul 
with  a  sudden  blast  of  approaching  misfortune. 

He  went  back  to  the  dog,  but  his  attention  was  dis- 
tracted. Till  now  he  had  found  refuge  in  the  supposi- 
tion that  all  the  papers  in  the  box  might  be  traceable 
to  Miss  Kezia,  for  was  it  not  to  her  that  he  had  unwarily 
quoted  the  fatal  words  ?  but  others,  evidently,  applied 
them  to  him.  Who  ?  Why  ?  The  air  seemed  full  of 
indefinite  menace. 

"  Nero,  old  boy,  I  do  believe  they  dislike  you  as  much 
as  they  do  me  !"  he  said,  shaking  his  head  to  his  com- 
panion's uplifted  gaze.     "  I  suppose  it's  a  case  of  '  love 
18  27:> 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

me,  love  my  dog,'  inverted.  '  The  opposites  of  equals  are 
equals.'  That's  Euclid,  or  ought  to  be.  You've  a  very 
bad  name,  Nero  ;  mind  you  don't  live  up  to  it."  He 
went  to  get  the  dog  some  supper,  for  Nero  had  of  late 
grown  dissatisfied  with  regular  meals.  Now  again  he 
sniffed  at  the  food,  but  left  it  untasted.  He  whined, 
before  a  familiar  cupboard,  for  rusks. 

Suddenly  the  minister  grew  anxious  about  his  dog. 
Suddenly  he  realized  that  he  had  been  anxious  for  some 
time.  Nero  was  not  his  old  self ;  he  was  dejected,  even 
occasionally  morose,  though  he  would  always  repent, 
with  overwhelming  display  of  affection,  whenever  he 
seemed  temporarily  to  hold  aloof.  The  minister  scru- 
tinized his  despondent  expression  where  he  sat  with 
drooping  lids,  his  eyes  drawn  back  to  his  ears.  "  I 
wonder  whether  he  is  lonely  and  misses  all  the  others," 
thought  the  minister.  "  It  certainly  wouldn't  be  sur- 
prising if  he  did."  He  knew  that  the  dog  could  never 
be  sent  back  to  Adrian.  The  new  dog  tax  had  indeed 
made  it  impossible  for  the  widow  to  retain  him. 

He  waved  his  hands  away  from  his  face  as  one  who 
gasps  for  breath.  "  Come  !  "  he  cried,  and,  rushing 
from  the  house,  raced  with  the  dog  to  the  village  through 
the  breezy  spring  night,  till  he  saw  the  lights  drawing 
nearer,  and  remembered  he  was  a  minister. 

He  turned  down  a  side  lane,  to  the  doctor's  little 
yellow  house.  The  doctor  was  a  jovial,  Bur- 
gundy-nosed bachelor,  a  sceptic,  and  the  one  man 
with  whom  the  minister  could  enjoy  an  honest,  open 
dispute. 

"  Dear  me,  is  it  only  you  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  turning 
lazily,  in  his  shabby  dressing-gown,  from  his  grog,  as  the 
parson  burst  in  upon  him,  "  I  thought  it  was  some  grand 

274 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

case  of  over-eating  among  the  Doyerfelds,  good  for  ten 
florins,  at  least." 

"  Doctor,  can  you  see  if  a  dog  is  ill  ?  "  replied  the 
Dominie  abruptly. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  We  doctors  know  nothing  about 
animals ;  animals  have  nothing  in  common  with  '  the 
human  form  divine.'  Oh,  of  course  not !  All  you 
theologians  know  that." 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  Nero,  then  ?  " 

Immediately  the  doctor  became  serious,  and,  with  the 
Dominie's  assistance,  he  felt  the  patient's  pulse,  and 
examined  the  whites  of  his  eyes  and  his  tongue. 

"  There's  nothing  much  the  matter  with  the  brute," 
said  the  doctor.  "  He's  a  little  out  of  sorts,  and  I'll 
give  you  a  draught  to  clear  the  system.  But,  I'll  tell 
you  what's  the  trouble,  if  you  really  want  to  know.  Like 
most  of  us,  he's  growing  old  and  cantankerous.  That's 
a  disease  no  medicine  can  cure." 

"  He  isn't  in  the  least  cantankerous,"  replied  the 
Dominie  vehemently.  "  His  temper's  that  of  an  angel. 
He's  never  even  bitten  Mina.'' 

The  doctor  eyed  him  curiously.  "  Have  you  never 
heard  that  this  kind  of  big  dog  is  apt  to  turn  crusty  with 
time  ?  "  he  said.  "  You  haven't,  have  you  ?  Well, 
better  look  out.  If  /  might  recommend  a  remedy,  it 
would  be  a  drastic  one.     I  should  say, '  Change  of  air  !  '  " 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  cried  the  minister,  growing 
hot. 

"  Change  of  air — you  know.  I  don't  fancy  this  sea- 
board agrees  with  him.     Send  him  somewhere  else." 

The  Dominie  stared  for  a  moment,  then  found  that 
he  was  too  angry  to  reply,  and  rushed  away. 

The  doctor  settled  down  to  his  glass.     "  Never  give 

275 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

advice,"  he  soliloquized.  "  But  what's  the  use  of  say- 
ing that  to  a  medical  man  ?  Poor  Dominie,  he'll  hear 
it  on  all  sides  to-morrow." 

The  Dominie  went  to  bed  in  a  huff,  and  woke  up  in 
a  bad  temper. 

He  was  pottering  about  in  his  httle  vegetable  garden, 
when  suddenly  a  dark  shadow  intervened  between  him 
and  the  feeble  April  sun.  Looking  up,  he  saw  Miss 
Kezia  Vandonderboom. 

"  I  want  the  price  of  those  chickens,  please,"  said  Miss 
Kezia  in  a  voice  hke  a  whiplash. 

"  My  housekeeper  pays  for  things,"  replied  the  young 
minister  loftily.  "  But  I  haven't  had  any  fowl  since  I 
came." 

Miss  Kezia  turned  green.  "  Do  you  take  me  for  your 
butterwoman,  Dominie  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  don't  need  to 
sell  anything,  thank  Heaven.  But  I'm  not  going  to  have 
my  and  my  sister's  chickens  chased  by  your  brute  of  a 
dog  without  getting  paid  for  the  damage." 

"  Nero  ?  "  cried  the  Dominie,  white  and  sick.  "  Does 
Nero  chase  your  chickens  ?  " 

"  Your  dog  does,  whatever  his  evil  name  may  be  ! 
And  you  a  Christian  pastor,  calling  your  dog  after  the 
Babylonish  tyrant !  I  dare  say  he's  going  mad,  hke  that 
monster  went :  howsoever,  he  don't  eat  grass,  but 
chickens  !  " 

"  I  will  pay  for  the  damage.  How  much  is  it  ?  "  said 
the  Dominie,  hoping  it  was  not  much.  He  went  in,  to 
his  desk. 

The  sight  of  silver  softened  Miss  Kezia.  "  Ah ! 
Dominie,"  she  exclaimed,  shaking  her  head,  "  how  truly 
I  warned  you,  more  truly  than  I  could  have  ventured  to 
think,  that  you  would  come  to  mourn  the  causing  of 

276 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

offences  !     Take  my  advice,  Dominie  :  shoot  that  dog  !  " 

He  turned  on  her.  "  It  was  you  that  put  that  text 
into  the  box,"  he  said.  "  How  often,  I  should  Uke  to 
know  ?  " 

"  Three  times,"  replied  Miss  Kezia  promptly.  "  I, 
and  Jemima,  and  Jane." 

He  bowed  her  out  ceremoniously,  and  then  summoned 
Nero  to  his  presence.  He  stood  looking  down  on  the 
dog,  and  the  dog  sat  looking  down  on  the  floor. 

"  Nero,  Nero !  "  said  the  Dominie,  "  I  wonder  how 
much  more  you  have  on  your  conscience.  Would  it  be 
any  use,  I  wonder,  changing  your  evil  name  ?  Sup- 
posing I  were  to  give  you  a  fresh  start  as  '  Paul '  ?  " 

Nero  guiltily  wagged  his  tail.  Then,  like  the  lonely 
young  fool  he  was,  the  young  minister  stooped  and 
kissed  the  culprit's  smooth  black  head. 

There  was  thunder  in  the  air.  An  irresistible  disquiet 
impelled  him  to  go  out  into  the  village,  down  to  the 
church,  and  the  text-box.  He  took  the  dog  with  him, 
being  resolved  never  in  the  future  to  let  the  animal  out 
of  his  sight,  unless  he  locked  it  up. 

"  No,  we  shall  not  part,  Nero,"  he  said.  "  If  it  be 
true  that  your  high-day  is  over,  all  the  more  reason  for 
me  to  stick  to  you  in  your  decay.  Besides,  to  whom 
could  I  dispose  of  you  ?     No,  we  shall  not  part." 

It  seemed  to  him,  as  he  passed  along  the  village  street, 
that  the  people  eyed  him  with  malevolence.  He  re- 
membered having  noticed  this  before  of  late.  He  told 
himself  that  it  did  not  matter  much.  He  could  never 
hope,  anyhow,  to  conciliate  the  Doyerfelds,  and  the 
Hockmans,  and  all  the  numerous  saints  of  his  congrega- 
tion.    He  yearned  for  a  downright  sinner  like  himself. 

277 

9 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

The  dog  slunk  behind  him.  People  whispered  and 
pointed  to  the  dog.  A  mother  drew  away  her  toddling 
baby  with  frightened  face.  A  little  boy,  safe  behind  a 
railing,  threw  stones. 

The  minister  unlocked  the  text-box.  There  were  two 
papers  in  it  with  the  accusatory  words.  One  of  these 
was  in  John  Doyerfeld's  handwriting. 

The  minister  walked  back  reflectively,  speculating 
as  to  who  could  have  written  the  other.  He  resolved  to 
take  down  the  box,  which  was  becoming  an  obsession. 
And  he  abused  himself  for  a  coward. 

He  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  an  outburst  of 
shrieks  and  revilings.  He  looked  back  hastily  ;  he  had 
jast  turned  a  corner  ;   the  dog  had  disappeared. 

He  ran  back.  An  excited  crowd  was  forming  by  one 
of  the  cottages.  The  Dominie  plunged  into  the  midst 
of  it.  An  unkempt  creature,  the  tears  coursing  white 
down  her  dirty  cheeks,  knelt  by  the  roadside,  straining 
to  her  ragged  breast  an  equally  dirty,  howling  child.  A 
chorus  of  ragged,  loud-voiced  sympathy  went  up  all 
around  them. 

The  Dominie  recognized  Mie  Stap  the  drunken  cobbler's 
wife,  just  as  her  husband,  the  bully,  burst  in  among  the 
rapidly  receding  spectators. 

"  Bitten  the  child,  has  he  ?  "  shouted  the  cobbler. 
"  Let  me  get  at  him,  the  great  hulking  brute,  or  his 
sneak  of  a  master  !  Ah,  there  you  are,  are  you  ?  " 
he  continued  in  a  lower  tone,  suddenly  espying  the 
Dominie's  black  coat.  "  Your  dog's  bitten  my  child 
and  nearly  killed  it,  and  I'll  shoot  him — I  swear  I  will — 
the  first  time  he  comes  my  way." 

"  No,  you  will  not,"  replied  the  Dominie.  "  Let  me 
see  what  I  can  do  for  the  child." 

278 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

The  child  was  undeniably  wounded,  though  not 
severely.  At  sight  of  the  blood  across  its  arm  a  shriek 
went  up  on  all  sides.  It  had  chased  the  dog,  flinging 
stones,  and  the  dog  had  bitten  it. 

The  Dominie's  calm  words  infuriated  his  antagonist. 
"  I  shall  shoot  him  and  thrash  you  first,  you  yellow- 
faced  parson  !  "  shouted  the  cobbler,  all  the  early  drink 
in  him  mounting  to  his  own  purple  visage.  "  What  d'ye 
mean,  coming  here,  preaching  peace  in  the  pulpit  o' 
Sundays,  and  prowling  about  the  place  all  the  rest  o'  the 
week  with  that  murderous  brute,  like  a  beast  of  prey  ? 
The  whole  village  wishes  it  were  rid  of  you  and  your  dog, 
that  it  does  !  And  no  chickens  nor  children  safe  in  the 
streets  for  fear  of  the  parson's  little  pet !  I'm  a  better 
friend  to  the  village  than  the  parson,  and,  by  G — ,  I'll 
make  you  kill  that  dog  yourself !  " 

They  had  drawn  back  into  the  yard  by  the  cobbler's 
hovel.  The  curious  crowd  clustered,  at  a  respectful 
distance,  round  the  entry. 

"  Peace,  drunkard ! "  said  the  Dominie,  standing 
motionless  :  "I  dare  you  to  touch  the  dog  or  me."  He 
folded  his  arms. 

"  Ah,  you've  easy  daring,"  replied  the  cobbler,  "  with 
that  ravening  dog  behind  you  to  help  you  to  speak 
bold  !  "  And,  indeed,  the  minister  felt  Nero,  at  that 
moment,  timidly  rubbing  against  his  legs.  He  dragged 
the  dog  into  an  outhouse  and  bolted  him  in. 

"  Now  !  "  he  said,  coming  back.  "  I'm  very,  very 
sorry  for  what's  happened,  but  I'm  not  afraid  of  you, 
Bram  Stap,  and  so  I  tell  you.  You  won't  get  anything 
out  of  me  by  bluster.  I  shall  do  with  my  own  dog  what 
I  choose." 

The  cobbler  calmed  down  before  the  other's  quiet 
279 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

tones.  "  No  offence,"  he  said,  slouchingly,  "  no  offence, 
Doiminie,  but  when  a  man  loves  his  children  as  I  do 

"  He  spends  all  his  earnings  in  drink,"  interrupted  the 
Domnie.  He  deliberated  a  full  minute.  The  crowd 
outside  wondered  what  would  happen  next.  "  If  I 
send  the  dog  away,"  said  the  Dominie  at  last,  cautiously 
reading  the  man  he  had  to  deal  with,  "  it  shall  be  of  my 
own  free  will ;  and  to  prove  that  it  is,  I  make  my  con- 
ditions. If  I  send  the  dog  away  this  week,  you,  Bram 
Stap,  shall  come  to  church  next  Sunday,  sober.  Do 
you  agree  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  agree,"  replied  the  cobbler  roughly.  "  Send 
the  dog  away,  and  how  do  you  know  I'll  keep  my 
share  ?  " 

"  Because  a  man  may  be  a  drunkard  and  a  bully,  and 
yet  not  altogether  a  blackguard,"  replied  the  Dominie  ; 
"  because  I  think  you'd  like  to  prove  you're  not." 

"  This,  at  least,  is  a  sinner,"  thought  the  Dominie 
bitterly.     "  He  doesn't  quote  texts." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  to  release  the  dog. 
When  they  reached  the  parsonage  together,  he  locked 
his  study  door,  and  sat  long  into  the  afternoon,  heedless 
of  the  old  woman's  calls  to  luncheon,  his  hand  against 
Nero's  glossy  neck. 

In  the  evening,  as  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen 
across  the  wastes  of  water,  the  Dominie  and  his  dog 
passed  slowly  down  the  village,  on  their  way  to  the 
landing-place. 

The  villagers  gathered  at  their  doors  and  along  the 
street,  and  watched.  The  Dominie  looked  neither  to 
right  nor  left,  avoiding  cdl  salutations.  The  dog  drooped, 
head  and  tail. 

280 


THE    MINISTER'S    DOG 

"  Well,  it's  a  mercy  you  spoke  up  as  you  did,  Bram 
Stap,"  said  one  of  the  cobbler's  boon  companions  ;  "I 
could  see  he  saw  you  meant  what  you  said.  And  a 
precious  funk  he's  in — no  wonder  !  " 

The  cobbler  turned  upon  the  speaker  with  an  oath, 
"  Hold  your  tongue,"  he  said,  "  or  I'll  knock  your  ugly 
eyes  out." 

The  minister  went  on  along  the  dyke,  where  the  broad 
estuary  once  more  swelled  and  glittered — away  from 
the  village — into  the  loneliness.  By  the  landing-place 
the  little  steamer  lay  puffing.  The  minister  had  tele- 
graphed to  a  friend  in  Friesland  who,  living  on  a  lonely 
moor,  had  lately  been  in  search  of  a  watch-dog.  He  led 
Nero  on  to  the  deck.  He  did  not  dare  to  take  leave 
of  him.      He  knew  that  the  dog  understood. 

Away,  into  the  unending  distance  the  steamer,  turning 
slowly,  steered  its  course.  The  grey  heaven  sank  lower 
and  lower,  leaden-coloured,  leaden-weighted,  upon  the 
leaden  water.    The  Dominie  stood  on  the  dyke. 

Suddenly  a  long,  long-drawn  howl  arose  upon  the 
evening  air. 


281 


Tom   Potter's  Pilgrimage 

FAR  astray  on  the  desolute  moor,  far  beyond  the  last 
faint  indications  of  human  sociabiUty,  beyond 
the  farthest  pubhc-house  that  stands,  an  outpost,  to 
catch  the  distant  wanderer,  far  beyond,  with  miles  of 
loneliness  all  around  it,  Tom  Potter's  cottage  sleeps,  turf- 
covered,  among  the  motionless  waves  of  turf.  Nobody 
ever  comes  near  it,  except  the  rabbits  or,  once  in  a  way, 
the  Baron's  officious  gamekeeper — to  see  if  old  Tom 
Potter  be  not  yet  dead. 

But  he  isn't  dead.  He  has  no  intention  of  dying. 
He  has  talked  about  the  thing  so  often,  these  last  twenty 
years,  he  was  forgotten  to  do  it. 

He  is  past  eighty — ten  years  past,  he  says,  but  that 
is  an  old  man's  haste  to  attain  a  hundred.  He  never 
had  any  relations  or  connexions  of  any  kind.  The 
villagers  say  he  has  always  lived  out  on  the  moor. 

On  a  silver  summer  evening,  a  night  so  soft  and  silent 
that  even  a  snuffy  old  gaffer  sees  the  stars  and  the  glow- 
worms, Tom  Potter  sat  in  front  of  his  hovel,  smoking. 
That  afternoon,  on  the  dusty  high-road,  he  had  picked 
up  an  untouched  cigar,  just  dropped  by  a  passing  cyclist ; 
with  reckless  honesty  he  had  shouted  to  stop  the  tourist, 
who,  suspecting  mendicancy,  had  swiftly  sailed  away. 
Such  an  event  had  never  occurred  before,  and  was  most 

282 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

unlikely  to  occur  again  ;  yet,  henceforth,  on  his  daily 
trudge,  Tom  Potter  would  dream,  eyes  downward,  of 
wealthy  swells  and  noblemen  sowing  tobacco  along  an 
old  man's  cheerless  path.  Not  noblemen.  Tom  Potter 
belonged  to  the  past :  the  gentleman  cyclist,  paddling 
his  own  legs  for  pleasure,  was  a  thing  you  heard  of, 
and  disbelieved. 

But  from  Tom  Potter's  modest  standpoint  almost  all 
men  are  moderately  wealthy.  The  men,  for  instance, 
who  owns  two  pigs.  As  he  sat,  laboriously  reflective, 
he  wondered  at  the  thought  of  countless  numbers  who 
could  lightly  lose  a  whole  cigar.  There  was  no  in- 
vidiousness  about  the  wonder.  Providence  had  willed 
these  natural  inequalities.  Tom  Potter  belonged  to  the 
past. 

During  the  last  fifty  years  he  had  asked  for  nothing 
but  daily  work  for  daily  food.  The  work  had  decreased 
with  failing  strength,  but  so  had  the  need  of  nourishment. 
In  youth  the  gates  of  all  the  senses  swing  open  to  enjoy- 
ment ;  Tom  Potter,  in  his  day,  had  seen  the  riotous  train 
sweep,  loud,  across  his  soul.  But  that  was  more  than 
fifty  years  ago,  miles  away,  almost  in  another  life ; 
nobody  know  anything  about  it. 

The  one  thing  he  dreaded  was  cold.  A  little  hunger 
had  its  compensations  ;  it  is  the  best  of  sauces,  until 
you  let  it  burn  ;  it  is  also  the  best  of  restoratives  when 
the  muscles  refuse  to  work.  A  little  thirst  cannot  do 
much  worse  than  disturb  your  temperate  potations. 
But  cold — cold — with  infirmities  increasing  and  inade- 
quate peat,  and  shivers  even  in  the  aimless  summer 
breezes — cold,  that  was  what  he  dreaded,  the  poor  man's 
silent  foe.  The  hovel  was  a  ruin ;  a  hundred  draughts 
swept  through  its  many  cracks.     He,  too,  was  a  ruin, 

283 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

its  aged  occupant,  and  the  draughts  pierced  now  where 
they  had  never  pierced  before. 

But  this  night,  at  any  rate,  no  chill  would  strike  upon 
the  mellow  air.  And  yet,  in  spite  of  comfort,  of  content- 
ment, in  spite  of  treasure  trove,  Tom  Potter's  meditations 
were  the  saddest  he  had  known  through  all  these  fifty 
uneventful  years. 

For,  that  very  morning  the  village  doctor  had  answered 
a  question  become  inevitable.  The  old  man  was  right. 
The  trouble  at  his  heart — the  sudden  catch,  the  spasm 
— was  the  slow  beginning  of  the  end.  Tom  Potter  must 
abandon  the  little  jobs  which  still  kept  body  and  soul 
together.  It  wasn't  a  matter  of  life  and  death ;  he 
simply  couldn't  do  them,  the  miserable  odds  and  ends. 
He  must  apply,  at  last,  for  outdoor  relief. 

"  And  long  may  you  enjoy  it !  "  said  the  doctor,  with 
rough  good-nature. 

"  Ay,  I  shall  live  to  be  a  hundred,"  answered  Tom. 
That  was  his  standing,  oft-repeated  joke  ;  for  the  first 
time  it  seemed  to  have  lost  its  laugh. 

Like  all  men  of  his  class,  he  had  the  smallest  opinion 
of  the  doctor.  If  the  poor  believe  in  anything,  it  is 
quacks.  Expensive  quacks.  But  he  knew  that  the 
doctor  spoke  truth,  because  he  had  known  it  before  the 
doctor  spoke.  He  couldn't  work  any  more.  He  would 
never  be  able  to  work  again.  Well,  he  was  past  eighty, 
and  last  year  he  had  owed  no  man  anything,  not  even 
the  Burgomaster's  Christmas  present  of  tobacco,  for  had 
he  not  done  an  errand  for  the  Burgomaster's  wife  ? 

He  rebelled  fiercely  against  the  idea  of  parish  relief. 
He  felt  that  this  was  absurd  of  him  ;  so  few  people  mind 
it.  The  doctor  would  have  thought  the  fancy  most 
extravagant ;   the   doctor  had  no  experience — outside 

284 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

romance,  for  he  closed  his  eyes — of  beggars  who  didn't 
choose — to  be  helped.  But  here  was  the  last  relic  of 
Tom  Potter's  handsome,  stalwart,  tempestuous  youth. 
He  was  strong  in  himself,  headstrong,  strong  of  arm, 
all-sufficient.  He  owed  no  man  anything — no,  nor 
God. 

He  set  his  toothless  gums  hard,  mumbling  the  delicacy 
his  quick  eye  had  gained  for  him — a  quick  eye  at  eighty- 
five  ! — many  a  young  fellow  of  twenty  was  not  half  as 
fit  for  work  as  he — Pah  !  A  wicked  look  settled  on  his 
face.  He  was  thinking,  very  sluggishly,  of  his  own  long- 
buried  youth,  of  the  climax,  away  yonder,  in  the  noisy 
seaport,  the  sudden  end  of  the  beginning,  as  he  called 
it,  he  who  had  now  come  to  the  slow  beginnnng  of  the 
end. 

He  had  been  a  first-rate  seaman,  able-bodied,  stout 
of  heart,  but  wild.  Before  he  ran  away  to  sea,  he  had 
deserved  his  mother's  thrashings ;  she  was  always 
drunk,  however,  when  she  thrashed  him,  and  that  pre- 
cludes discipline.  He  had  not  been  drunk,  now,  for 
more  than  fifty  years.  His  drunkenest  fit  had  been  the 
last,  on  that  day  when  his  wife  ran  away  from  him,  back 
to  the  man  he  had  stolen  her  from,  her  bridegroom,  his 
messmate,  ten  years  his  junior.  She  was  a  bad  lot,  his 
wife,  and  a  lady  too,  a  doctor's  daughter,  sunk  to  be  a 
barmaid.  She  had  run  from  Piet  Jansen  before  she 
died — quite  a  girl,  poor  thing  !  But  the  child  was  safe 
enough,  little  Anthony,  taken  by  respectable  relations 
of  the  mother's,  properly  cared  for.  The  father,  burrow- 
ing into  oblivion  away  on  the  moor,  had  never  lost  sight 
of  the  child.  He  had  looked  on  his  whole  career  from  the 
outset,  watching  it  vaguely,  as  well  as  he  could.  When- 
ever Anthony  rose  a  step  higher  on  the  ladder  he  climbed 

285 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

so  securely,  Piet  Jansen  would  write  from  Amsterdam. 
Piet  Jansen,  poor  fool !  Tom  was  supposed  to  have  gone 
to  sea,  immediately  on  his  wife's  desertion,  with  a  ship 
that  foundered.  Only  his  rival,  happily  married  to  a 
fairly  thriving  rag-shop,  knew  of  his  existence  "  in  the 
desert,  like  a  baboon."  Sometimes  Tom  Potter  won- 
dered why  this  man,  who  hated  him,  wrote  of  Anthony's 
continuous  success,  but  he  was  shrewd  enough  to  hazard 
an  explanation  :  Piet  Jansen  believed  every  letter  to  be 
a  stab.  Tom  Potter  would  gladly  have  paid  for  each,  if 
necessary,  in  blood. 

There  came  a  time  when  the  newspapers  supple- 
mented these  epistles,  then  a  time  when  they  supplanted 
them.  The  villagers  knew  little  of  the  wild  man  of  the 
moors  ;  they  were  amused  to  find  him  suddenly  fre- 
quenting public-houses,  amazed  to  see  him  sitting  there, 
and  not  even  getting  drunk.  You  went  to  a  tavern 
for  the  business  of  drinking  or  the  pleasure  of  discourse  ; 
the  wild  man  came  to  read  the  paper  !  His  eagerness 
about  it  became  a  constant  source  of  fun,  but  behind 
his  back,  which  was  broad  and  resulute,  like  the  eagle- 
featured,  sunburnt  face,  people  asked  each  other 
with  a  wink,  what  Tom  expected  to  find  there — an 
unknown  legacy,  or  a  nomination  as  Minister  ? 

When  Anthony  was  struck  down  by  swift  disease 
in  the  midst  of  his  prosperity,  Tom  Potter  made  no 
sign.  He  left  off  going  to  the  public-house.  He  wasted 
a  whole  evening  shaping  a  little  black  rosette  out  of  a  bit 
of  old  black  ribbon  ;  wasted,  for  when  the  rosette  was 
ready  he  took  it  off  his  cap  again,  and  flung  it  into  the 
fire.  Why  should  he  mourn  for  a  son  he  had  never  seen  ? 
Yls,  once,  in  a  comic  cartoon  he  had  found  his  portrait 
and  fancied  a  strong  resemblance  to  himself.     He  had 

286 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

resisted  the  yearning  to  buy  the  picture.  Well,  now 
the  whole  thing  was  over.  There  were  children,  he  knew 
— the  rich  wife's  children :  they  were  no  farther,  no 
nearer,  than  the  dead  man,  his  son. 

He  mustn't  have  parish  relief — not  parish  relief ! 
He  had  never  owed  any  man  anything.  He  got  up 
and  faced  the  darkly-glowing  heavens.  He  was  eighty- 
five  years  old,  and  his  son  had  died  at  fifty  !  The  self- 
same stars  looked  down  on  a  mansion  many  miles  away — 
in  another  province,  several  hours  off  by  train — he  had 
never  seen  it,  knew  nothing  of  it.  To  old  men  death  is 
easiest ;  to  them  it  doesn't  come. 

Parish  relief  means  inquiries.  His  shrivelled  cheek 
burned  a  dusky  red.  No,  that  doesn't  matter ;  he 
was  safe  enough  there.  Pride  had  driven  him  from  the 
child  of  his  shame  and  had  kept  him  from  the  child  of  his 
glory.  It  was  false  to  say  that  he  disgraced  his  descend- 
ants by  the  acceptance  of  parish  relief.  He  owed  nothing 
to  any  man.  Not  even  to  his  son's  children  an  honour- 
able past. 

His  son's  children.  The  beginning  of  the  end.  He 
could  think  of  nothing  else.  His  eyes  turned  southwards, 
as  they  had  so  often  turned,  for  fifty  years,  by  night  and 
day.     Not  parish  relief ! 

The  cigar  dropped  from  between  his  lips.     He  stooped 

down,  and  dusted  it  carefully  against  his  shabby  sleeve, 

and  stuck  it  back  again. 

***** 

Through  the  beautiful  beechwoods  of  Varenslo  their 

fortunate  owner,  Everard  Plas  Potter,  strolled  home  in 

the    summer    twilight.     He   was    tranquilly   contented 

with  himself  and  his  surroundings,  modestly  conscious  of 

his  position,  a  man  under  thirty,  enjoying  excellent 

287 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

health,  possessed  of  a  beautiful  place  in  the  country,  and 
already  a  Member  of  the  States-Provincial.  He  had 
raarried  wealth,  like  his  father,  and,  unlike  his  father, 
love  ;  for  the  father  by  doing  as  much  as  he  could  had 
enabled  the  son  to  do  more.  On  the  pedestal  of  the 
father's  strenuous  erecting  the  son  stood  serene.  The 
father  had  never  seen  the  scaffolding  down  ;  the  son 
wished  the  pedestal  higher.  But  he  was  very  well 
satisfied  with  it,  all  the  same. 

He  had  been  down  to  the  village  himself,  to  send  a 
telegram.  To-morrow  was  his  only  sister's  birthday  ;  he 
had  telegraphed  acceptance  of  an  invitation  to  dinner  ; 
it  was  the  first  birthday  since  her  marriage  to  an  officer 
of  rank  in  the  neighbouring  garrison  town.  The  post- 
master had  been  obsequiously  regretful  that  Mynheer's 
letters  should  just  have  gone  up  to  the  house.  Mynheer 
dawdled  at  the  side-gate,  waiting  to  catch  the  postman. 
He  would  like  to  see  Marian  to-morrow  at  the  head  of 
her  table.  Hers  was  just  the  kind  of  match  that  would 
have  pleased  papa. 

The  postman  stood  before  him,  cap  in  hand.  Mynheer 
took  the  Httle  packet  and  walked  towards  the  house. 
There  was  a  note  from  a  friend  about  an  appointment, 
which  he  scanned  in  the  dusk  ;  and,  furthermore,  there 
were  the  newspapers,  a  couple  of  letters  for  the  servants, 
a  bill,  a  begging  letter.  These  he  thrust  into  his 
pocket ;  he  hesitated  about  the  begging  letter — should 
he  tear  it  up  unopened  ?  The  lamp  was  lighted  in 
the  back  drawing-room  ;  he  went  in. 

His  wife  was  busy  at  the  tea-table. 

"  Is  Anthony  asleep  ?  "  he  asked,  speaking  of  their 
only  child,  a  boy  of  five.  Anthony  was  safe  asleep,  well, 
as  always  ;  he  had  gone  to  bed  amid  roars  of  laughter. 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

Three  dogs  lay  under  the  tea-table ;  one  of  them  yawned 
and  stretched  his  legs. 

"  How  fat  Tub  grows  !  "  said  Everard  ;  "  he  gets  too 
much  to  eat." 

His  wife  looked  across  at  him,  laughing. 

"  That  is  a  common  complaint  in  this  house,"  she 
replied.  "  Just  look  at  cook,  and  John !  And  you 
and  I  oughtn't  to  throw  stones." 

"  I  don't  eat  too  much,"  he  said,  throwing  himself  into 
a  chair.  "  Unless  you  mean  sauces  ?  I  must  admit  I 
do  like  a  good  French  sauce.  And  your  mother's 
receipts  are  excellent." 

"  Mamma  got  them  from  her  uncle,  the  Consul," 
said  the  lady,  arranging  her  little  blue  cups,  "  and  his 
was  a  lifelong  experience." 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  he  answered.  He  lay  back,  con- 
sciously enjoying  the  comfort  around  him,  and  there- 
fore began  talking  of  their  little  household  troubles.  A 
good  servant  leaving,  the  gardener's  wife  again  ailing 
— that  mysterious  breakage  of  a  vase  in  the  boudoir.  It 
was  pleasant  to  reflect  you  had  nothing  worse  to  fret 
over.  Nor  did  they  fret  unreasonably,  pleasantly  occu- 
pied with  themselves,  their  lives,  the  welfare  of  those 
around  them. 

"  Another    begging     letter — evidently,"     he     said 
daintily  poising  the  dirty  missive  between  finger  and 
thumb.     "  Well,  it  can't  be  helped.     I  may  as  well 
open  it,  and  see  if  it's  worth  attending  to." 

"  The  poor  must  beg,  and  the  rich  must  give,"  she 
answered,  gently.     "  That  seems  quite  natural." 

He  smiled,  opening  the  envelope.     "  A  good  woman's 
social  economy  !  "  he  said.     "  And  a  good  woman's  social 
economy  is  always  all  wrong."    He  began  reading,  with 
19  28q 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

the  smile  on  his  face,  but  the  first  words  of  the  letter 
swept  it  away. 

"  High  and  Nobly  Born  Sir,"  said  the  letter.  "  Your 
High  Nobleness  is  a  very  fine  gentleman,  and  you  live 
very  grandly,  as  your  father  did  before  you.  But 
did  your  father  ever  tell  you — or  did  he  not  ? — that  his 
father,  a  common  sailor,  that  married  a  bad  woman,  who 
left  him,  lives  in  a  miserable  hovel  in  want  of  daily  bread 
— lives  there  still,  without  food  or  clothing,  though  he's 
ninety  years  old  ?  Does  your  Mighty  Nobleness  know 
that  or  not  ?  I  see  your  name  in  all  sorts  of  charity 
lists  (your  father  was  more  in  the  political  line),  but  how 
about  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  as  the  Bible  says — 
and  it's  bitter  cold  of  nights,  and  not  having  enough  to 
eat  ! — Your  friend,  "  X." 

"  Well  ?  "  said  his  wife. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing,"  he  replied  hastily,  and,  crumpling 
the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  walked  out  on  to  the  verandah. 

He  knew  nothing  of  this.  Before  God,  he  knew 
nothing.  His  father,  the  early  orphaned  son  of  a  sea- 
captain,  had  been  brought  up  by  relations  on  the  mother's 
side,  who  had  always  abused  the  dead  sailor,  perhaps 
because  he  had  really  been  as  bad  as  they  loved  to  paint 
him,  perhaps  because  his  naval  captaincy  had  been  in  the 
merchant  service.  But  the  relations  themselves  had 
been  essentially  middle-class  :  such  people  make  subtle 
divisions,  so  Anthony  Potter  had  always  argued  to  himself 
and  to  his  son.  He,  Anthony,  had  worked  himself  up 
with  a  will,  studying,  as  a  notary  clerk,  to  take  his 
University  degree  ;  he  had  married  the  rich  notary's  ugly 
daughter — married  young,  for  the  daughter  was  old — 
had  pushed  himself  forward  in  the  town  he  lived  in,  had 
talked  himself  into  Parliament,  had  become  a  power 

290 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

in  council  because  he  could  talk  more  fluently  than  most 
men  about  things  he  didn't  understand,  had  talked  much 
about  most  things,  but  little  of  his  family  history.  What 
he  knew  he  had  told.  Of  course  their  origin  was  humble. 
Everard,  luxuriously  educated,  thoroughly  accomplished 
married  to  a  charming  wife,  was  aware  of  that  fact,  and 
content  to  let  it  rest.  He  believed  his  father's  parents — 
a  merchant  captain,  and  a  doctor's  daughter — to  have 
been  dead  for  something  like  fifty  years.  He  had  always 
been  told  so. 

And  now — a  common  sailor,  and  alive  !  Hunger,  and 
thirst,  and  cold  !  He  looked  up  at  the  stars  above  him, 
and  wondered  if  they,  at  this  moment,  were  calmly 
shining  down  on  the  hovel  and  the  old  man.  A  common 
sailor — oh,  never  mind  that  just  now  !  Hunger  and 
cold  !  Well,  at  any  rate,  the  nights  were  not  cold  in 
August.     He  smiled,  bitterly. 

He  believed  the  whole  story  at  once,  in  spite  of  the 
stupid  pihng  up  the  agony.  To  his  lips  it  tasted  true. 
Nobody  had  ever  told  him  ;  that  was  his  great  feeUng 
of  injury.  He  was  willing  to  believe  his  father  had  not 
known,  and  therein  he  j udged  rightly.  Nor  had  Anthony 
willingly  spoken  of  his  mother,  from  a  vague  dread  of 
something  wrong. 

Who,  then,  had  written  this  letter,  and  why  ?  Not 
any  one  desirous  of  benefiting  the  old  man,  or  further 
particulars  would  have  been  given.  Some  meaningless 
enemy,  therefore,  secret  and  spiteful.  Why  should  he 
have  enemies  ?  And  why  should  these  hold  a  secret  un- 
known to  himself  ? 

A  shivery  discomfort  seized  on  him.  He  despaired  of 
discovering  where  the  attack  came  from.  But  one  thing 
he  was  resolved  to  do.     He  must  consult  the  family 

291 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

solicitor — must  attempt,  by  all  means  in  his  power,  to 
find  out  his  grandfather.  But  then,  why,  again,  did  the 
old  man  remain  in  hiding  ?  What  secret  shame  hung 
over  their  heads  ?  He  would  never  know.  The  name 
was  no  unusual  one.  He  had  not  a  scrap  of  information 
to  start  with.  He  foresaw,  rightly,  that  he  would  never 
be  able  to  trace  the  old  man  against  his  will. 

"  What  a  beautiful  night !  "  said  his  wife,  coming  out 
on  the  verandah. 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  and  after  a  long  silence — 

"  How  happy  we  are,"  she  murmured.  "  How  good 
God  is  !  I  am  so  glad  to  think  that  Marianne,  also,  is 
happy  now." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered  ;  then,  suddenly — 

"  I  can't  go  to  Marianne  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  I 
must  go  to  Amsterdam  on  business.  I  couldn't  be  back 
in  time." 

"  To  Amsterdam  ?  "  she  repeated,  with  only  surprise 
in  her  voice.  "  You  never  go  to  Amsterdam — such  a 
horrible,  noisy  place  !  And  I  didn't  think  you  ever 
had  any  business  !  " 

He  laughed  irritably,  "  Oh,  it's  some  charity  business," 
he  said. 

"  In  connexion  with  that  begging  letter  ?  Dear  me, 
what  an  important  letter  !     You  get  so  many." 

He  did  not  answer.  He  had  never  had  a  secret  from 
her.  He  hated  secrets  and  all  unpleasantness.  How 
could  he  disgrace  her  ?  And  his  sister  ?  A  pauper 
grandfather  !  A  common  sailor  !  Pooh,  what  a  coward 
he  was ! 

"  I've  got  a  headache  and  am  going  to  bed,"  he  said  ; 
but  he  repented  the  words,  though  they  were  true.  A 
headache  was  a  catastrophe  in  that  comfortable  house- 

292 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

hold,  and  all  ordinary  means  were  available  for  making 
a  sick  man  worse. 

When  he  awoke  from  restless  morning  slumber,  the 
night's  resolution  remained  unchanged.  Though  he 
felt  that  the  search  was  a  hopeless  one,  it  must  be  under- 
taken at  all  costs. 

He  drove  off  to  the  station  in  his  dogcart,  the  boy, 
Anthony,  accompanying  him  so  far.  The  mother  half 
reproachful,  half  quizzical,  kissed  her  hand  to  them  be- 
tween the  laurels  and  rhododendrons  of  the  drive. 

"  Talk  to  me,  papa,"  said  Anthony  twice,  accustomed 
to  a  flow  of  merry  unmeaning  chatter.  But  the  father 
only  answered  in  monosyllables. 

Before  the  little  country  station,  white  and  red  against 
the  sun-filled  road  and  sky,  the  usual  knot  of  country 
people  stood.  They  all  touched  their  caps  as  the  carriage 
drove  up,  and  remained  courteously  contemplative, 
closely  watching  every  movement  of  "  the  gentry " 
in  various  attitudes  of  respect.  Usually  the  Lord  of  the 
Manor  enjoyed  this  constant  atmosphere  of  deference  ; 
to-day  he  hurried  past  the  bowing  station-master,  then 
turned  back  to  send  a  telegram  to  his  sister  explaining 
his  desertion. 

An  old  man,  sitting  on  a  bench,  half  rose,  laboriously 
and  with  instinctive  submission  stood  cap  in  hand. 

"  What  a  poor-looking  old  man  !  "  whispered  the  child, 
early  trained  to  easy  pity.  "  How  tired  and  poor  he 
looks,  papa  !  "  The  child  was  yellow-haired  and  chubby, 
in  bare  legs  and  a  sailor  suit. 

"  Does  he  ?  So  he  does."  said  the  father,  carelessly. 
"  Is  the  telegram  right  ?  Thank  you.  Here,  Tony,  you 
can  give  the  old  man  the  change."  Then  a  sudden  pang 
struck  his  heart ;   he  called  the  child  back.     His  thought 

293 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

was  of  another  old  man,  lost  for  ever  in  the  seething 
mass  of  the  world's  misery,  out  yonder,  in  the  hovel  some- 
where on  the  desolate  moor. 

"  Here,  give  him  this,"  he  said,  and  put  a  gold  piece  in 
the  child's  hand. 

The  old  man  on  the  bench  looked  up  in  amazement. 
He  made  as  if  he  would  have  rejected  the  proffered  coin  ; 
he  held  it  on  his  worn  palm  for  a  moment,  gazed  at  the 
bright  face  opposite,  gazed  down  on  the  gold  piece.  For 
once  his  pride  gave  way ;  he  could  not  affront  the  innocent 
child. 

"  Thank  you,  little  master,"  he  said,  humbly,  closing 
his  fingers. 

The  boy  ran  after  his  father,  across  to  another  plat- 
form :  the  Amsterdam  train  was  just  coming  in. 

"  Who  are  they  ?  "  asked  the  old  man,  eagerly,  of 
a  porter  lounging  near. 

"  They  ?  "  repeated  the  porter,  with  the  usual  local 
wonderment  at  the  stranger's  ignorance.  "  That's  Mr. 
Plas  Potter,  of  Varenslo.     The  Lord  of  the  Manor." 

The  old  man  let  him  move  off  to  ring  a  bell  and  come 
back  again.     Then  he  said,  "  Great  people,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  I  believe  you.  The  greatest  people  in  these  parts. 
Very  wealthy.     And  charitable,  as  you  saw." 

The  old  man  winced. 

"  And  the  lady,"  continued  the  porter,  "  a  real  great 
lady,  as  ever  you  saw.  Affable  to  the  poor,  and  conde- 
scending, not  like  your  upstarts  of  yesterday." 

"  They've  been  here  long  ?  "  questioned  the  old  man, 
wistfully. 

"  I  believe  you,"  said  the  porter  again.  "  Been  here 
as  long  as  I  can  remember.  And  his  father  before  him, 
I've  heard.     The  old  Lord  was  a  Member  of  Parliament." 

294 


TOM    POTTER'S    PILGRIMAGE 

The  stranger  put  no  more  questions.  Presently  the 
porter  said — 

"  You  look  regular  done  up." 

"  Yes,  I  came  a  long  way.     I  tramped  two-thirds." 

"  What  did  you  come  for  ?  " 

"  I  had  business.  It's  done.  I'm  going  back  by 
railway,  though." 

The  Amsterdam  train  had  steamed  away.  The  boy 
was  coming  back,  beside  the  station-master. 

"  Going  north,  then,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  this' 11  take  me,  won't  it  ?  "  He  opened  his 
hand  and  showed  the  gold  piece. 

"  Deary,  yes  ;  take  you  all  over  the  country.  Whew  ! 
did  they  give  you  that  ?  " 

The  old  man's  sallow  cheek  turned  brown. 

"  No,"  he  stammered.  "  Yes — yes — they're  generous 
people,  as  you  say.  Good  people.  A  real  gentleman 
born  and  bred.  You're  lucky  to  have  such  people  at 
Varenslo.  Good  day,  little  master.  God  bless  you  ! 
good  day." 

He  sat  watching  the  child  get  into  the  dogcart ; 
sat  watching  the  carriage  glide  slowly  down  the  dusty 
sunlit  road. 

"  That  old  man  said  '  God  bless  you,'  "  remarked  Tony 
gravely,  to  the  groom  who  was  driving  him.  "  That 
was  because  papa  gave  him  a  gold  piece,  you  know." 


295 


"  The  Trick  " 

THEY  were  making  love,  under  the  great  black 
shadow  of  the  broad-beamed  fishing-smack. 
The  twilight  hung  around  them  in  ashen  folds  ;  the  air 
lay  still,  but  their  love-making,  as  that  of  sea  folk 
should  be,  was  stormy,  like  a  winter  sky. 

"  'Tis  no  manner  of  use,"  he  said  at  last,  with  a  gasp. 
"  Your  father'll  never  consent  while  your  Cousin  Govert 
lives." 

"  Your  Cousin  Govert,"  fiercely  retorted  the  girl. 

"  Well,  yes.  My  cousin,  and  yours.  He's  the  only 
bond  between  us." 

"  The  only  bond  !  "  angrily  repeated  the  girl. 

He  kissed  her  as  a  storm-wind  strikes,  too  suddenly, 
across  the  branches. 

"  The  only  relation  we  have  in  common,  I  mean." 

"  And,  pray,  am  I  to  remain  a  spinster,"  she  asked 
proudly,  "  until  Govert  chooses  to  marry — or  die  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,  for  unless  he  marries  you,  he  will  die 
unmarried." 

"  We  have  talked  of  these  things  before,  Simon  ;  we 
have  got  into  a  way  of  believing  them.  I  wonder  how 
much  of  them  is  true  ?  " 

"  More  than  you  would  wish — or  I.  Hush ! 
Everything  is  true.  Since  yesterday  night  I  know 
everything." 

296 


THE    TRICK 

"  What,  in  the  name  of  goodness,  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  In  the  name  of  goodness,  Httle.  Listen,  Put  your 
head  down  here.  Last  night  I  stopped  Govert  suddenly 
on  the  sands,  in  the  dark,  and  asked  him.  He  told  me 
at  once.  It  is  just  as  we  have  always  fancied.  His  aunt 
left  him  all  her  money — the  two  smacks,  the  four 
cottages,  for  the  property  came  from  his  family — but 
she  made  him  promise  to  make  a  will  bequeathing  it  all 
to  me,  her  sister's  son,  in  case  he  should  die  un- 
married." 

"  And,  of  course,  he  has  kept  the  promise." 

"  Why  '  of  course  '  ?  " 

"  Because  that  is  just  like  Govert,  And  it's  just  like 
you  to  question  why.  Never  mind.  Simon,  I  love  you  ; 
I  don't  care  twopence  for  Govert.  And  so  he  will  die 
unmarried,  and  you  will  be  rich  some  day." 

"  No,  he  will  marry  you.     Put  down  your  head." 

"  Thank  you,  I  prefer  to  hold  it  up.  Simon,  I  under- 
stand my  father  ;  I  should  act  as  he  does.  I  pity  him 
deeply.     And " 

"  Yes  ?  " 

"  And  I  disobey  him." 

Again  he  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  kissed  her 
furiously. 

"  It  is  madness,"  he  said,  "  delightful,  celestial  mad- 
ness !  You  are  only  nineteen.  The  law  forbids  you  to 
marry  without  his  consent  before  you  are  thirty  ;  you 
can't  wait  eleven  years  !  " 

"  What  is  eleven  years  ?    A  moment." 

"  Nor  I." 

The  air  struck  cold.  She  shivered.  "  If  you  were 
Govert,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  he  would  give  his 
consent  to-night." 

297 


THE    TRICK 

"  I  not  being  Govert,  but  only  Govert's  heir,  he  will 
give  his  consent — to  Govert — to-morrow." 

"  I  will  refuse  !  "  she  cried  vehemently. 

He  smiled.  "  All  girls  say  that,"  he  ansv/ered.  "  It's 
a  very  old  story.  But  when  it  comes  to  the  point — the 
beating  and  bullying  and  turning  out  of  doors — they  do 
as  they  are  bid." 

"  Simon,  you  know  too  much  ;  you  talk  too  well  for  a 
common  sailor." 

"  I  am  not  a  common  sailor  ;  I  was  second  mate,  as 
you  know.  It's  a  manlier  occupation  than  taking  out 
excursionists  at  so  much  an  hour.  Sometimes  I  think 
I'll  start  fishing,  Hke  Govert." 

"  Govert's  got  a  smack." 

The  words  stung  him.     "  Two  smacks,"  he  said. 

She  made  no  direct  rejoinder. 

"  If  you  were  Govert,"  she  said  at  length  in  a  whisper, 
"  he  would  give  his  consent  to-night." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

She  faced  round  at  him,  where  they  lay,  interlaced, 
under  the  looming  hull. 

"  I  don't  know.     Do  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  let's  talk  of  something  else."  She  shook  herself 
free.  "  Let's  try  that  binding  business  again,  Simon. 
You  didn't  give  me  time  the  other  night.  Why,  it's  only 
a  sort  of  puzzle !  If  you  only  leave  me  alone  for  a  bit, 
I  know  I  shall  be  able  to  get  loose." 

He  laughed,  and  rising  to  his  feet,  a  stalwart  figure, 
he  went  along  the  vessel's  side,  looking  for  a  bit  of 
rope.  The  other  day  he  had  amused  and  annoyed  her 
with  this  trick  of  binding  your  hands  and  bidding  you 
undo  them — quite  an  easy  matter,  if  only  you  saw  how 

298 


THE    TRICK 

"  An  English  sailor  taught  it  me,"  he  said,  "  out  in 
Demerary  ;  it's  as  simple  as  anything.  There,  J  anna, 
I've  got  you  now."  He  slij^ped  the  noose  over  her  strong 
young  wrists.  "  Look,  I  could  do  what  I  liked  with 
you  !  "  And  he  made  as  if  he  would  have  slapped  her 
cheek. 

"  I  don't  mind  that,"  she  said,  but  she  struggled  to 
free  herself.  "  I  like  feeling  that  I'm  in  your  power  and 
that  you've  bound  me."  But  she  struggled  all  the  more 
to  free  herself.  "  Now,  at  this  moment,  Simon,  if  you 
was  wanting  to  kill  me,  I  could  only  close  my  eyes — so." 
She  suited  the  action  to  the  words,  sinking  back,  a  faint 
smile  on  her  lips. 

"  Good-even  !  "  said  a  man's  voice  in  front  of  them. 
Govert  Stendal  stood  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  boat. 
"  What's  the  joke  ?  "  he  asked,  and  his  voice  was 
bright,  unlike  their  tones,  which  had  been  soft  and 
bitter. 

"  Simon  has  chained  me,"  said  J  anna  defiantly,  "  and 
see,  he  holds  me  chained." 

"  I  will  release  you !  "  cried  Simon's  rival,  with 
assurance  :  he  knelt  in  the  sand  ;  he  tugged  fiercely  at 
the  rope. 

"  You  are  hurting  me.  That  is  all,"  said  the  girl 
C00U57. 

Simon  smiled.  Govert  set  his  teeth,  and  blood 
sprang  here  and  there  from  his  fingers. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  give  it  up  ?  "  asked 
Simon. 

The  other  leapt  from  the  sand  and  struck  his  tor- 
mentor a  full  blow  across  the  face. 

"  Hit  him  back  !  "  cried  the  girl,  also  springing  to  her 
feet,  and  swaying  in  the  uncertainty  of  her  balance. 

299 


THE    TRICK 

"  Hit  him  instantly,  Simon,  you  coward  !  Unloose  me  ! 
let  me  get  at  him  !  I'll  hit  him.  Oh,  Govert,  I  love  you 
for  doing  that !  " 

"  For  that  only  ?  "  he  asked  mournfully. 

She  turned  on  him  at  once.  "  Did  you  want  me  to 
love  you  for  your  money  ?  "  she  said. 

"  You  do  not  love  me  at  all,"  he  made  answer. 

She  would  have  retorted,  but  her  father's  sudden 
appearance  prevented  her. 

"  Get  you  home,  Janna,"  commanded  her  father. 
"  What  means  this  unseemly  exhibition  ?  Oh,  Govert 
is  with  you,  I  see.     Your  sister  spoke  only  of  Simon." 

"  The  little  spy  !  "  said  Janna  between  her  teeth. 

"  You  know  what  I  told  you  I  should  do  to  you  if  ever 
I  found  you  alone  with  Simon.  You  hear  me,  Simon 
Parr,  you  pauper  !  " 

"  Hush,  father  !  " 

"  What !  Is  my  own  daughter  to  bid  me  hush  ?  I'm 
the  biggest  smack-owner  in  Hoist.  Do  you  hear  me, 
Simon  Parr  ?  And  my  daughters  are  not  for  the  likes 
of  you.  What's  the  nonsense  about  this  string  ?  Undo 
it!" 

"  Let  Govert  undo  it/'  said  Simon  sullenly. 

"  I  can't."  muttered  Govert. 

"  Do,  and  you  shall  marry  me,"  taunted  Janna. 
"  Father,  you  wouldn't  make  me  marry  a  man  that 
couldn't  even  untie  another's  lover's  knot  ?  " 

Old  Roskam  had  been  eyeing  his  daughter's  bound 
hands  in  the  half-light.  "  Pooh  !  "  he  said.  "  Govert  '11 
tie  you  a  faster  knot  than  that,  girl."  She  stepped  away 
from  under  his  extended  fingers.  "  I'll  marry  the  man 
who  unties  my  knot,"  she  cried.  "  I'll  marry  the  man 
who  unties  my  knot !  " 

300 


THE    TRICK 

A  smile  which  she  could  not  see  crept  over  her  father's 
face.  "  So  you  shall,"  he  answered  smoothly.  "  But, 
mind  you,  no  tricks  !  Keep  with  me.  You  shall  go  out 
with  us  in  the  smack  to-night.  Tis  glorious  weather  for 
fishing.  And,  by-and-bye,  before  you  go  to  sleep,  Govert 
shall  have  another  try  at  Simon's  knot." 

"I'll  keep  it  till  then  !  "  exclaimed  the  girl.  "  No  one 
shall  touch  it  except  the  man  who  unties  it.  Promise 
me,  father — all  fair  ! — I  may  marry  the  man  that  unties 
my  knot  ?  " 

Old  Roskam  laughed  aloud.  "  You  may,"  he  said. 
"  The  matter  shall  be  decided  to-night ;  but,  by  Jove  ! 
you're  too  partial  to  Simon."  He  drew  the  scared 
Govert  aside.  "  Keep  silent,"  he  whispered  hurriedly. 
"  I  know  that  trick.     I  learnt  it  years  ago  in  Demerary." 

Janna  gazed  triumphantly  at  Simon.  "  Well,"  he 
said,  "  you  told  me  nobody  could  possibly  discover  how 
to  do  it.  Oh,  Simon,  you  heard  father  !  He's  passionate 
and  unreasonable,  but — but,  Simon — he  keeps  his  word." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.  I  don't  trust  your  father.  And, 
besides,  Janna,  what's  the  use  ?  Govert's  got  the  money 
anyhow." 

"  Was  it  the  money  you  was  thinking  of  ?  " 

"  No,  not  the  money.  But  your  father  '11  never  allow 
me  to  marry  you — and  me  a  pauper  ;  you  heard  him  say 
it.     He's  fooling  you  !  " 

"  Father 's  unreasonable,  but  father  keeps  his 
word." 

"  He's  playing  you  a  trick  of  some  kind.  He's  playing 
you  a  trick." 

"  It's  you  that  plays  tricks !  "  she  cried,  laughing 
happily,  and  held  up  her  twisted  hands. 

"  Janna,  if  Govert  were  dead— supposing  he  died  to- 

301 


THE    TRICK 

night,  I  should  have  the  smacks,  and  the  houses,  and 
everything." 

"  Yes,  but  he  isn't  dead,  nor  likely  to  die." 
Janna,  he's  made  the  will  he  promised  to.     I  know 
he  has." 

"  He's  a  stronger  man  than  you,  Simon.  I  wished 
you'd  hit  him  back." 

"  I'll  hit  him  back,  Janna,  never  you  fear.  If  a  man's 
hands  were  bound  like  yours  are,  Janna,  another  man 
could  do  with  him  what  he  liked." 

"  Fie  !  You  wouldn't  hit  a  man  whose  hands  were 
bound  !  "  said  Janna. 

"  I  didn't  say  that.     Janna,  if  Govert  were  dead " 

She  turned  on  him  furiously. 

"  Kill  him,"  she  cried,  "  if  you  want  to  ;  but  leave  off 
talking  about  it."  She  hesitated  a  moment.  "  And 
kill  him  fair,"  she  said,  walking  away. 

Her  father  came  round  the  prow  of  the  boat,  on  whose 
other  side  he  had  been  engaged  in  close  confabulation 
with  Govert.  He  saw  the  two  lovers,  a  few  steps  apart, 
on  the  sand  in  the  golden  moonlight. 

"  Come  along  with  me,"  he  cried  to  the  girl.  "  They're 
about  starting.  Govert's  got  to  go  home  first  and  say 
he'll  be  away  all  night.  He'll  pull  out  to  us  in  his 
boat  later  on.  He  can  bring  you  along  with  him, 
Simon." 

"  I  could  come  with  you  now.     I'm  ready." 

"  No,  no.  Let  the  two  suitors  come  together  ;  and 
the  one  that  liberates  the  maiden  shall  wed  her.  But 
Govert  must  have  first  chance.  Ha,  ha  !  you're  not  fair 
to  Govert.  'Tis  like  laying  a  wager  when  one  party 
knows  the  result."  He  went  off,  laughing,  and  calling 
to  his  daughter  to  follow  him. 

302 


THE    TRICK 

"  I  don't  believe  you,"  said  Simon,  between  his  teeth. 
"  You'd  never  give  up  your  daughter  to— a  pauper." 

And  the  sea  came  up  with  sullen  and  sleepy  roar. 

An  hour  later  Govert  and  Simon  stood  in  the  moon- 
light, by  Govert's  rowing-boat. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?  "  questioned  Govert. 

"  I've  never  not  been  ready,"  was  the  ungracious 
reply. 

"  Well,  my  uncle  wanted  to  go  on  ahead  and  have  a 
talk,  I  suppose,  with  his  daughter.  Look  here,  Simon 
Parr,  we  can't  both  marry  J  anna." 

"  Nobody  said  we  could." 

"  But  we  can  both  love  her,  more's  the  pity.  I 
promise  you  one  thing,  I  won't  marry  her  against  her 
will.     Not  expressly  against  her  will.     I  can't  do  more." 

"  Oh,  a  girl's  will !  And,  then,  '  expressly.'  Govert 
Stendal,  you're  safe  enough." 

"  It's  more  than  you  would  do  for  me  ;  I  know  it. 
And,  besides,  there's  this  great  difference  between  us  : 
if  I  don't  marry  my  Cousin  J  anna,  I  die  a  bachelor,  and 
you " 

"  Will  be  your  heir." 

The  other  started.  "  It's  true,"  he  said,  "  but  nothing 
was  further  from  my  thoughts  than  that.  And  you,  I 
was  going  to  say,  if  you  cannot  marry  J  anna,  will — 
marry  somebody  else,  in  time." 

"  'Tis  a  lie,"  said  Simon  coldly.  "  Let's  get  into  the 
boat  and  be  gone." 

Govert  paused,  with  one  foot  on  the  bow.  "  Shake 
hands  before  starting,"  he  said.  "  I'm  sorry  I  hit  out 
this  evening.     You  provoked  me  beyond  endurance." 

"  Shake  hands  with  yourself,"  replied  Simon.  "  Why, 
pray,  should  you  and  I  shake  hands  ?  " 

303 


THE    TRICK 

"  Because  we're  to  put  out  to  sea  together.  Every 
trip  on  the  ocean  means  a  possible  mishap,  I  can't  bear 
to  be  in  a  boat  with  a  man  that's  not  my  friend." 

Simon  laughed  harshly.  "  Oh,  I'm  your  friend,"  he 
said,  "  the  best  friend  you  ever  had,  perhaps.     Get  in." 

They  glided  across  the  shmy  water.  The  placid  moon 
looked  down  upon  the  cadence  of  their  oars. 

Far  out  to  sea  the  fishing- smack,  with  Roskam  and 
J  anna  on  board,  lay  silently  calling  the  smaller  boat 
towards  her. 

The  two  men  were  weU  away  from  the  shore  before 
either  spoke.  Their  skiff  was  lost  in  the  moonlit  dark, 
on  the  swelling  expanse  of  the  waters. 

"  Yes,"  said  Simon  gloomily,  as  if  following  out  his 
own  gloomy  thoughts.  "  To-morrow,  unless  something 
stops  you,  you'll  be  publicly  engaged  to  the  girl." 

"  If  I  untie  her,"  replied  Govert,  laughing. 

"  Don't  try  to  fool  me.  Untied  or  not,  'tis  to  you 
they'll  tie  her.  Poor  thing !  Poor  honest,  happy 
thing  !  " 

"  Simon  !  "  The  other's  blood  boiled.  "  Best  hold 
your  tongue,  Simon.  So  '11  I.  Don't  forget  we're 
cousins." 

"  Oh,  curse  your  cousinship  !  "  cried  Simon. 

Then  they  both  rowed  on  in  silence  across  the  slimy 
water.  The  moonlight  played  about  the  cadence  of  their 
oars. 

Presently  Simon  spoke  again,  with  an  effort,  as  one 
who  is  eager  to  say  what  he  would  rather  leave  unsaid. 

"  You  were  talking  about  dying  a  bachelor — sup- 
posing you  mean  it." 

"  I  do.  'Tis  a  stupid  sort  of  thing  to  speak  aloud. 
But  'tis  true." 

304 


THE    TRICK 

"  Well— supposing— then,  all  the  more  reason  for  me 
to  keep  you  from  marrying — her." 

"  To— keep— me— from  ?  "  repeated  Govert  proudly. 

"  Anyhow,"  persisted  the  other,  his  voice  gaining  in 
assurance,  "  if  I  can't  keep  you  from  marrying  her,  I  can 
teach  you  how  to  win  her  fair." 

Govert  did  not  answer,  pulling  steadily. 

"  Nobody'U  find  out  about  that  knot  unless  he's 
shown,     I  never  knew  anybody  to  do  it." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  might  show  you — for  a  consideration." 

"  You  offer  to  sell  me  your  sweetheart  ?  "  said  Govert, 
pulling  steadily. 

"  I  offer  to  sell  you  what'll  never  be  mine.  I  put  the 
best  face  I  can  on  a  bad  business.  In  another  twenty 
minutes — "  he  turned  towards  the  vessel  looming 
ahead — "  you'll  be  making  a  fool  of  yourself  before  the 
lot  of  us,  Govert  Stendal.  You'll  get  Janna,  in  any  case  : 
best  win  her  honest.  Give  me  a  thousand  florins,  and 
I'll  show  you  how  to  unfasten  her  hands." 

"  You  speak  plainly,"  said  Govert,  pulling  still.  But 
his  eyes  were  interested  ;  the  other  observed  his  look. 

"  Here's  a  bit  of  rope,"  continued  Simon,  producing 
one  from  under  his  jacket.  "  Shall  I  show  you  how  it's 
done  ?  " 

Govert  rested  on  his  oars,  and  fixed  a  keen  gaze  on  his 
companion.     Simon  looked  away. 

"  Is  it  a  bargain  ?  "  said  Simon,  with  a  catch  in  his 
voice. 

"  Yes,  and  no.  If  I  succeed  in  freeing  myself  I  pay 
you  nothing." 

"  Of  course."     Simon  laughed  with  the  confidence  of 
achieved  success.     "  If  you  succeed  in  that,  I'll  pay 
20  305 


THE    TRICK 

you  a  thousand  florins,  though  I  don't  possess  a  thousand 
pence." 

"  I  don't  want  your  thousand  florins.  Here !  " 
Bending  forward,  Govert  stretched  out  both  arms. 
Simon,  with  frowning  brow  and  trembhng  hps,  held  the 
noose.  His  hands  shook  so  violently  at  first  he  could 
hardly  steady  them.  He  looked  down  into  the  bottom 
of  the  boat.  "  Come,"  he  said  in  a  very  low  voice. 
The  oars  plashed  beside  them.  They  lay  on  the  water 
almost  at  rest. 

"  Tie  it  tight,"  said  Govert  cheerfully.  "As  tight  as 
you  tied  Janna,  mind,  or  you  won't  be  able  to  show  me 
properly.  Don't  you  think  it's  rather  a  mean  thing, 
Simon,  this  thing  that  you're  doing  just  now  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  think  it's  a  mean  thing,"  replied  Simon 
with  sullen  voice. 

"  Don't  you  ?  Well,  opinions  differ.  Heavens,  man  ! 
what  makes  your  fingers  tremble  so  ?  " 

"  Drink  !  "  answered  Simon  wildly.  His  companion 
looked  incredulous,  but  only  questioned 

"  Did  you  hurt  Janna's  wrists  as  much  as  you  are 
hurting  mine  ?  " 

"  Janna  didn't  cry  out,"  retorted  Simon,  still  with 
sulky  accents  and  sunken  eyes.  "  And,  besides,  you 
told  me  to  bind  you  tight." 

"  Janna's  a  good  plucked  one.     Have  you  done  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Simon,  sitting  back.  He  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  forehead.  Govert,  too,  shoved 
back  on  his  seat,  and  let  his  fettered  hands  lie  in  his  lap. 

"  Well,  aren't  you  going  to  try  ?  "  cried  Simon  im- 
patiently. 

"  What's  the  use  of  trying  ?  Don't  you  say  it  can't 
be  done  ?  " 

306 


THE    TRICK 

Simon  glanced  up  for  a  moment ;  exultation  flashed 
from  his  eyes.     But  he  only  answered  quietly — 

"  True,  it  can't  be  done.  You're  in  my  power, 
Go  vert." 

"  Yes,"  said  Govert,  with  dangerous  tranquilUty. 
"  A  thousand  florins  is  too  much." 

The  man  opposite  barked  at  him  with  suppressed 
rage.  "  You'll  be  sorry  you  said  that,"  cried  Simon. 
"  I'm  going  to  ask  for  two  thousand,  or  I  won't  unloose 
you." 

"  Two  thousand  ?     When  ?  "  said  Govert. 

"  Will  you  give  me  two  thousand  ?  " 

"  Supposing  I  say  no  ?  " 

"  You'll  say  yes,"  replied  Simon,  gently  paddling 
forward.  A  cloud  had  come  across  the  moon.  It  was 
dark. 

"  If  you  unloose  me  I  will  give  you  two  thousand." 

Simon  returned  no  immediate  answer.  The  water 
slashed  against  the  keel.  "  You  may  well  say  '  if,'  "  he 
replied  at  length.  "  Govert  Stendal,  you're  in  my 
power." 

"  You  remarked  that  before,"  said  Govert  coolly. 

"  Give  me  one  of  your  two  smacks  also,  and  I'll  untie 
you." 

Govert  looked  across  in  swiftly  indignant  astonish- 
ment, but  neither  man  could  now  discern  the  other's 
face.     "  What  the  devil  do  you  mean  ?  "  cried  Govert. 

"  I'll  take  the  oldest  and  worst  of  the  two — that's  the 
Mary  Louisa,  isn't  she  ?  You  see  I'm  not  exacting." 
All  the  sneer  had  come  into  every  word  again  :  there 
never,  in  all  the  village,  had  been  a  sneerer  like  Simon 
Parr.     "  You  must  give  me  two  thousand  florins  and  the 

Mary  Louisa,  or " 

307 


THE    TRICK 

"  Or  ?  " 

"  Or  we  go  up  the  side  together,  and  J  anna  and  all  the 
rest  can  see  what  condition  I've  reduced  you  to.  Oh, 
never  fear  ;  I'll  help  you  up." 

Govert  looked  down  at  his  powerless  hands,  and  seemed 
to  reflect.  Presently  he  lifted  his  head  with  a  movement 
of  definite  resolve.  The  clouds  had  lightened  along  the 
moon  :  great  rifts  of  yellow  were  piercing  the  slaty 
grey.  Across  the  slate  of  the  waters  the  fishing-smack 
loomed  large,  no  longer  distant,  dark  against  the  slaty 
sky. 

"  That's  once  too  often,"  said  Govert  calmly.  "  I 
wouldn't  have  minded  giving  you  the  thousand  florins — 
to  make  up  for  losing  J  anna  :  I  suppose  that  isn't  too 
much  for  them  as  reckons  money  could  make  up.  I'd 
have  let  you  unfasten  my  hands  and  show  me  the  trick, 
if  so  being  that  was  any  satisfaction.  I'd  have  let  you 
do  all  that  for  losing  J  anna — for  you  are  to  lose  her. 
But,  dang  it,  Simon,  you're  a  scoundrel.  You  want  to 
rob  me.  I  Wcis  sorry  I  struck  you.  I  owed  you  a 
reparation.     But,  dang  it,  I'm  almost  glad." 

The  other,  instead  of  listening  quietly,  had  sprung  to 
his  feet.    The  light  boat  swayed  to  and  fro. 

"  Sit  down  !  "  cried  Govert. 

"  Oh,  I'll  sit  down,"  replied  Simon  scornfully,  rocking 
the  boat  with  extended  feet.  "  You — you — refuse  to 
give  me  the  money,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  refuse." 

"  Fool,  you  forget — though  I  told  you  once  too  often 
for  your  liking " 

"  Twice  too  often,"  interrupted  Govert. 

" Forget  that  I  have  you  entirely  in  my  power  ! 

You,  whose  life  alone  stands  between  me,  a  poor  devil, 

308 


THE    TRICK 

and  the  money  that'd  gain  me  the  sweetheart  who  wants 

to  be — not  yours,  but  mine.     By  G !  it  was  you  that 

have  provoked  another  man  once  too  often  !  I  was 
wondering  all  the  time  on  the  water — should  I  do  it  ? 
undecided.     You've  decided,  not  I." 

"  What  ?  " 

Simon  vouchsafed  no  answer.  The  moonbeams  were 
once  again  rippling  across  the  water  in  a  broadening  band 
of  light.  Govert  watched  his  rival  sit  down  in  silence, 
deliberately  divest  himself  of  his  jacket,  draw  forth  a 
hfe-belt  from  under  the  seat,  and  lay  it  ready  for  use. 
The  boat  swelled  and  sank  in  the  water,  floating  near  to 
the  ship, 

"  I'm  going  to  upset  us,"  said  Simon  hoarsely.  "  Save 
yourself  if  you  can.     You  can't !  " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  again  ;  the  boat  swung  aside 
with  the  motion.  The  life-belt  was  in  his  hands ;  he 
was  endeavouring  to  adjust  it,  recklessly  flung  forward, 
ready  to  drag  the  whole  thing  down  with  his  weight 
towards  the  water.  In  that  moment  he  saw,  with  eyes 
dilated  in  horror,  the  man  opposite  him  slip  both  hands 
out  of  their  bindings,  saw  him  leap  up  and  upon  him, 
felt  the  life-belt  wrenched  out  of  his  grasp,  felt  the  boat 
surge  aloft  and  turn  sideways  and  upwards  and  over, 
felt  something  strike  him  on  the  brow  as  the  great  rush 
of  waters  closed  in  around  him,  sweeping  him  away, 
'neath  its  weight,  into  darkness  and  stillness  and  un- 
utterable void. 

Govert,  fighting  for  hfe,  in  the  first  fear  and  thought 
of  preservation,  struck  out  from  the  suck  of  the  boat. 
The  next  moment  he  paused,  getting  the  life-belt  under 
his  armpits  with  an  effort,  and  swam  back  a  few  yards, 
carefully  watching.    The  boat  lay  bottom  up,  in  the 

309 


THE    TRICK 

glitter  of  the  moonlight.  There  was  no  sign  of  the  missing 
man.  Govert,  sick  at  heart,  waited  in  vain,  with  one 
arm  against  the  hull.  He  never  saw  the  face  of  his 
would-be  murderer  again. 

"  The  life-belt  struck  him  ;  it  must  have  stunned  him," 
reflected  Govert.  With  some  effort,  he  set  himself  to 
right  the  boat,  and,  in  the  perfect  calm  of  the  radiant  sea, 
succeeded.  He  got  into  her,  dripping  wet,  alone,  and, 
after  protracted  hesitation,  sadly  shaped  his  course 
towards  the  ship. 

In  another  moment  he  hailed  her  and  went  on 
board. 

"  Where  is  Simon  ?  "  asked  Janna's  voice,  as  he  set 
his  foot  on  deck.  He  could  not  answer.  She  stood 
before  him,  her  wrists  still  encircled  by  the  string. 

"  Did  you  forget  to  bring  him  ?  "  she  asked  tauntingly. 
"  You're  late  enough." 

"  I  didn't  forget  to  bring  him,"  Govert  stammered 
awkwardly.     "  We  came  together." 

"  Then  what's  he  waiting  for  down  there  ?  "  she  cried. 
She  looked  over  the  side  ;  she  could  see  clearly  enough 
in  the  moonlight  that  the  skiff  was  empty.  There  was 
no  one  "  waiting  down  there." 

"  Janna,  I  can't  help  it !  "  exclaimed  Govert  madly. 
He  broke  loose,  hardly  knowing  what  he  said.  "  I  can't 
help  it !  It's  no  fault  of  mine  !  I  don't  know  how  it 
happened.  I  don't  think,  Janna,  it  was  any  fault  of 
mine." 

"  Fault  of  yours  ?  What  has  happened  ?  "  Her 
face  was  white. 

Then  he  told  her  hurriedly,  confusedly — told  her,  at 
first,  only  that  the  boat  had  upset. 

"  And  you  had  the  life-belt  on ! "  she  screamed, 
310 


THE    TRICK 

pointing.  "  You  could  swim  better  than  he — ^brute ! 
Did  you  hit  him  in  the  water  ?  " 

He  would  have  answered,  but  she  heeded  nothing, 
hanging  over  the  ship's  side,  fiercely  weeping,  for  the 
truth  had  dawned  upon  her  that  Simon  was  dead.  At 
last  she  Ufted  her  face,  violently  checking  the  storm, 
becalmed. 

"  Murderer  !  "  she  said. 

And  he  tried  to  tell  a  little  more,  to  tell  how  the  thing 
had  happened,  strugghng  to  leave  the  dead  man  un- 
accused, yet  to  exculpate  himself. 

"  Murderer  !  "  was  all  she  said,  with  her  fettered  arms 
against  the  gunwale. 

His  cheeks  burned  ;  he  grew  more  explicit.  Simon, 
he  said,  had  upset  the  boat. 

"  Why  ?  "  she  asked,  still  looking  away  in  the  moonlit 
darkness.     "  And  you  had  the  life-belt  ?     Murderer  !  " 

"  /  am  not  the  murderer,"  he  burst  out.  "  Before 
Simon  upset  the  boat  he  had  bound  my  hands  like  yours. 
I  was  willing  to  pay  him  for  showing  me  the  trick,  though 
I  knew  it :  your  father  had  just  taught  me  ;  but  while 
my  hands  were  still  bound,  as  he  thought,  Simon  upset 
the  boat !  " 

"  I  do  not  understand,"  she  said,  still  looking  away. 
"  I  do  not  believe  a  word  ;  there  seems  no  sense  in  your 
story.  Bound  your  hands — ah  !  "  She  turned  to  him, 
her  face  aflame.  "  Ah,  I  understand !  He  wanted  to 
kiU  you  !  " 

"  He  was  my  heir,"  said  Govert. 

"  Liar  !  He  was  not  thinking  of  that.  You  had 
struck  him — you  had  insulted  him— he  wanted  to  kill 

you ! " 

"  And  so  he  tied  my  hands  !  "  said  Govert  bitterly. 
3it 


THE    TRICK 

"  It  was  I  he  was  thinking  of — I !  He  wanted  me. 
He  wanted  me.  Coward  !  by  your  own  confession  you 
hit  him — in  the  boat,  in  the  water,  at  some  time,  you 
maimed  him.     And  you  saved  yourself !  " 

"  Listen  to  me,"  he  cried  desperately.  "  It  is  not  like 
that — honestly,  it  isn't.  I  don't  think — oh,  don't  make 
it  worse  for  me — I  don't  think,  I'm  not  sure — no,  I  can'i 
be  to  blame  !  By  the  God  above  us,  that  listens,  I  had 
no  thought  of  hurting  him.  A  man  naturally  endeavours 
to  save  himself — he'd  attempted  to  murder  me — it  was 
murder — I — I  seized  hold  of  the  life-belt — I  waited " 

"  Cease,"  she  said.  "  You  can  spare  yourself  the 
trouble.     Leave  me  alone." 

"  Janna,  don't  take  on  so.  I  can't  bear  it.  He  wasn't 
worthy  of  you,  Janna  ;  he  really  wasn't.  He  would 
readily  have  sold  his  claim  for  a  couple  of  thousand 
florins " 

"  He  was  very  poor,"  she  said,  more  to  herself  than  to 
Govert. 

"  I  love  you  a  thousand  times  more,  Janna.  Let  me 
make  up  for  him.  Janna,  you  will  marry  me  and  make 
me  happy,  and  be  happy  yourself  some  day,  in  time. 
Janna !  " — his  voice  grew  faint  with  pleading — "  Janna ! ' 

She  drew  herself  up  and  faced  him. 

"  You  told  me,"  she  said,  "  that  Simon  was  a  coward." 

"  I  did  not  say  it." 

"  But  you  think  it  ?  " 

"  It  is  true." 

"  That  he  was  a  scoundrel  ?  " 

"  Janna,  what  is  the  use  of  all  this  ?  I  only  tell  you 
that  he  is  dead,  and  that  I  love  you  !  " 

"  That  he  sold  his  claim  on  my  heart  for  money  ?  " 

"  So  be  it." 

312 


THE    TRICK 

"  That  he  tried  to  kill  you  by  treachery  ?  " 

"  Even  so." 

"  Fool !  All  these  things  you  tell  me,  and  I  love  him. 
And  you  ask  me  to  forget  him,  and  become  your  wife  ?  " 

"  Not  to-night." 

"  Ay,  to-night.     I  must  wed  to-night." 

"  Let  me  untie  your  wrists.  If  one  but  knows,  it  is 
very  simple." 

She  pushed  him  back.  "  Only  my  husband,"  she 
said,  "  shall  untie  my  wrists  to-night." 

"  But  we  cannot  be  married  to-night,"  he  pleaded. 

Again  she  checked  him.  She  had  drawn  towards  a 
heavy  weight  which  lay  beside  her.  She  now  lifted  it 
in  her  tight-bound  hands. 

"  Who  says  not  ?  "  she  answered, 

"  J  anna,  you  know  as  well  as  I " 

Again  she  stopped  him  with  an  imperious  gesture  ; 
and,  holding  the  weight  aloft.  "  You  have  told  me 
much  to-night,"  she  said,  "  and  this  is  my  one  reply." 

She  had  steadied  herself  against  the  gunwale.  With 
the  deadly  weight  grasped  tight  between  her  fingers,  she 
flung  herself  over  the  side. 


313 


Why   He   Loved   Her 

"  "\^ES,"  said  Hans  Golding  to  his  companion  in  the 

A  "  trekschuit,"  "  I  love  her  for  her  father's 
sake."  He  puffed  once  or  twice  at  his  cigar  with  an  air 
of  great  decision,  and  his  eyes  rested  thoughtfully  on 
the  passing  landscape. 

The  skipper  of  the  barge  made  no  reply.  Hans 
Golding  was  his  only  passenger  on  this  dull  September 
evening,  and  so  the  skipper  felt  aggrieved.  Besides, 
this  stranger  was  a  townsman  from  a  distance,  and  the 
skipper  was  wary  of  what  he  called  "  foreigners," 
especially  when  these  foreigners  laid  claim  to  an  older 
acquaintance  than  his  with  a  corner  of  the  skipper's 
small  world. 

The  boat  crept  onward  through  the  falling  shadows. 
Very  slowly  the  water  oozed  around  its  ample  bosom  ; 
very  slowly  the  prim-cut  trees  slipped  past  along  the 
straight  line  of  dull  canal.  The  sky  sank  leaden,  like 
a  coverlet  of  coming  sleep.  One  or  two  ducks  floated 
silently,  too  lazy  to  quack. 

"  Yes,"  began  Hans  Golding,  "  it  was  eighteen  years 
ago,  as  I  was  telling  you.  Well,  you  don't  remember 
me,  and  no  wonder,  seeing  you  wasn't  here.  My  mother, 
she  used  to  sell  brooms  along  the  highways — that  was 
what  my  mother  did — she  was  what  you'd  call  a  tramp. 

314 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

Oh,  I'm  not  proud  ;  I  don't  mind  telling.  I've  got  on 
in  the  world,  I  have.     Try  a  cigar  ?  " 

"  Thank  ye  kindly,"  said  the  skipper,  "  you'll  excuse 
me  not  smoking  it  at  once."  And  he  shifted  the  plug 
of  tobacco  he  was  chewing  while  he  stowed  away  the 
precious  present  in  a  pocket  of  his  brown  woollen  jersey. 

"  She'd  been  ill  for  a  long  time  before  she  died," 
continued  the  stranger,  "  but  die  she  did,  all  of  a  sudden, 
one  night  in  Baas  Bultman's  cowshed  ;  died  as  a  dog 
might  die,  on  just  such  a  still  dull  evening  as  this  ;  and 
she  wasn't  a  bad  mother  either.  No,  she  was  a  good 
mother,  say  I,  as  mothers  go  nowadays." 

He  looked  up  at  the  skipper  for  confirmation,  and  the 
skipper  nodded  grave  assent. 

"  They'd  have  thrown  me  on  the  parish  but  for  Baas 
Bultman.  I  should  never  have  come  to  nothing  then. 
No,  I  should  never  have  come  to  nothing.  Did  you  ever 
know  any  one  thrown  on  the  parish  as  came  to  any 
good  ?  " 

The  skipper  took  so  long  delving  into  all  his  experi- 
ences and  memories  of  so  vast  a  subject  that  his  passen- 
ger lost  patience. 

"  Well,  I  never  did.  Nor  did  any  one  I  ever  heard 
on,"  said  Golding  in  the  tone  a  man  assumes  when  he 
starts  on  his  favourite  theory.  "  Baas  Bultman  comes 
in  to  me  where  I  sat  crying  by  the  body — I  was  only 
seven,  you  see,  and  hungry  to  boot — and  '  My  lad,' 
says  he,  '  you  shall  stay  with  me.  But  you'll  have  to 
work  hard,'  he  says." 

"  Didn't  he  say  d d  hard  ?  "  asked  the  skipper 

earnestly. 

"  Maybe  he  did  and  maybe  he  didn't ;  but  when  I 
tells  the  story  I  always  tells  it  without." 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

"  Well,"  said  the  skipper,  "  it  don't  sound  natural 
for  a  man  to  talk  about  hard  work  without  damning  it. 
Howsoever,  Ben  Bultman  was  always  pious,  and  I  can't 
say  as  I've  ever  heard  him  swear  much." 

"  Pious  he  is,"  affirmed  Golding,  "  for  he  saved  me 
from  the  workhouse,  and  if  that  ain't  piety,  show  me 
what  is  !  "  He  held  his  cigar  aloft  interrogatively  at 
the  skipper.  But  the  skipper  was  not  prepared  to 
show  what  piety  was. 

"  I  lived  with  him,"  continued  Hans  triumphantly, 
"  and  he  brought  me  up — I  won't  say  as  it  wasn't  hard 
— but  he  looked  after  me.  And  when  I  was  fourteen, 
and  he  saw  that  I  wasn't  the  sort  for  the  farm  work,  he 
prenticed  me  to  a  carpenter  at  Overstad,  and " 

"  Said  he  was  glad  to  get  rid  of  you,"  suddenly 
interrupted  the  skipper. 

"  Did  he  say  that  ?  "  inquired  Hans  anxiously. 

"  So  I've  always  heard,"  replied  the  skipper,  a  little 
ashamed  as  he  fingered  the  cigar  against  his  breast. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  he  was  right.  Howsoever,  I've 
made  my  way.  I've  the  smartest  little  shop  in  my  part 
of  the  country.  I  settled  over  yonder,  in  the  north, 
you  know,  at  a  small  place  called  Dorkum — and  look 
at  me  now  !  "  He  spread  himself  out  in  his  dark  check 
suit,  and  the  dim  evening  light  caught  the  glint  of  his 
watch-chain. 

"  You've  been  luckier  than  Bultman  has,"  said  the 
skipper,  reflectively  watching  two  pigs  by  the  water- 
side. 

The  carpenter  gave  vent  to  an  exclamation  of  regret. 
"  When  they  told  me,"  he  said,  "  at  our  place  the  other 
day — 'twas  at  market — that  Baas  Bultman  was  bank- 
rupt, I  said,  '  'Tis  a  lie  !     'Tis  a  he,'  I  said  :  I  was  that 

316 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

sure.  And  when  J  oris  Piets,  as  is  my  own  neighbour 
and  church  clerk,  told  me  as  the  thing  was  true,  for  he'd 
heard  it  from  his  sister's  daughters  that  lives  in  these 
parts,  why,  you  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a 
broken  reed,  you  might.  I  knew  that  J  oris  Piets 
wouldn't  willingly  tell  a  lie,  and  I  said,  '  I'll  find  out  for 
myself,'  I  said,  and  as  soon  as  I  could  I  took  the  railway 
this  blessed  morning  and  come  straight  away !  " 

"  How  long  did  you  do  over  it  ?  "  asked  the  skipper, 
naturally  interested  in  distances. 

"  And  now  you  tell  me  it's  true,"  continued  the 
carpenter,  unheeding. 

"  Ay,  it's  true  enough  :  he's  going  to  be  sold  up  next 
week." 

"  To  think  of  it !  "  cried  Hans,  studying  the  handle 
of  his  tiny  umbrella. 

"  They  do  say  that  he  speculated,"  remarked  the 
skipper,  his  eyes  on  more  pigs  farther  down. 

"  Sold  up  !  "  repeated  Hans.  "  And  what '11  become 
of  his  daughter  ?  " 

"  Dina  's  to  go  into  service :  that's  sure  and  certain," 
replied  the  skipper,  glad  in  his  own  dull  way  to  be  the 
purveyor  of  such  important  news. 

Hans  Golding  sat  chewing  his  cigar  in  silence.  At 
last  he  said — "  Who'd  'a'  thought  it  ?  "  which  remark 
struck  him  as  so  exceedingly  apposite  that  he  made  it 
over  again. 

"  It's  what  you  never  think  that  always  happens," 
said  the  philosophic  skipper. 

The  carpenter  slapped  down  his  right  hand  on  his 
knee.  "  I've  always  loved  that  child  for  her  father's 
sake,"  he  said  ;  "  she  was  a  quiet  Uttle  feeble  thing,  not 
much  to  look  at,  that  timid  and  startled,  afraid  of  a 

317 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

dead  mouse.  She  never  took  much  notice  of  me,  going 
about  in  her  own  half-frightened  way.  Do  you  know, 
I  used  to  think  she  looked  down  on  me  all  the  same — 
a  charity  boy,  as  you  might  say."  He  stared  at  the 
skipper,  but  the  skipper  saw  no  reason  to  commit 
himself. 

"  Well,  it  wouldn't  'a'  been  unnatural,"  reasoned 
Hans.  "  I've  often  thought  it  out.  She'd  pass  by  me 
that  proud,  as  you  might  say,  and  not  give  me  a  look. 
Some  people  say  it  was  shyness,  but  it  isn't  natural  her 
being  shy  with  a  charity  boy  like  me."  He  nodded  his 
head.     "  She  was  a  little  lady,  she  was,"  he  said. 

"  She'll  have  to  climb  down,"  remarked  the  skipper, 
who  did  not  approve  of  these  sentiments. 

"  I  ask  you,"  continued  Hans,  rising  with  outstretched 
hands,  "  is  that  sort  of  frightened  little  nervous  haughty 
creature  the  sort  that  you'd  send  into  service  ?     No !  " 

"  P'raps  not,"  said  the  skipper,  with  a  grin. 

"  P'raps  not  !  I  tell  you,  no  !  Can  you  see  her  in 
a  big  loud  kitchen  with  a  lot  o'  servants  ?  No  !  Can 
you  see  her  in  a  crowded  drawing-room  a-answering 
the  bell  ?  No  !  Can  you  see  her  listening  in  the  hall 
to  the  talk  of  a  young  footman  as  is  pinching  her  round 
the  waist  ?     No  !  " 

"  You  needn't  shout  so,"  replied  the  skipper,  "  I 
don't  want  to  see  her  in  none  o'  them  places." 

The  carpenter  struck  his  umbrella  on  the  deck  and 
sat  down  again,  looking  wise. 

"  She  ain't  a  beauty,"  continued  the  skipper.  "  Least- 
ways, not  what  we  call  a  beauty  in  these  parts.  She's 
too  thin  and  pale,  and  what  people  in  the  town  call 
'  delicate,'  with  them  big  eyes  of  hers.  She  won't  find 
a  husband  here." 

318 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

The  carpenter  nodded  his  head  vigorously.  "  That's 
what  I  said  to  myself,"  he  remarked. 

"  A  husband  !  "  repeated  the  skipper.  "  No,  God 
bless  your  soul !     And  she  with  a  bankrupt  father  !  " 

"  I'm  glad  you've  give  me  all  the  facts,"  said  the 
carpenter.  "  You  never  hear  'em  right  at  a  distance 
— at  least,  not  so  as  to  make  sure.  And  it's  five  years 
since  I  came  near  this  place." 

"  Then  why  did  you  come  now  ? "  queried  the 
skipper. 

"  I  thought  I'd  hke  to  look  up  the  old  man  in  his 
trouble." 

"  My !  you  are  a  rum  'un,"  said  the  skipper.  "  Well, 
Ben  Bultman  may  be  glad  of  the  only  good  action  as  I 
can  hear  he  did  in  his  life.  Oh,  he's  a  pious  man,  I 
know,  but  that  hard.  I  never  heard  as  he  gave  away 
a  halfpenny  to  a  beggar.  But  there  !  Some  men  are 
good-natured  all  their  lives  and  never  meet  with  nought 
but  ingratitude,"  said  the  skipper  ruefully.  "  Well, 
gratitude  ain't  much  good,  that's  a  comfort."  And 
the  skipper  pushed  his  fur  cap  aside  to  scratch  his  head. 
"  No,"  said  the  skipper,  "  what  Ben  Bultman  wants, 
and  won't  get,  is  cash  !  " 

"  I  can't  give  him  cash,"  replied  the  carpenter, 
glumly.  "  It's  all  true  what  you  say.  I've  thought 
it  all  out  afore  I  come."  He  got  up  and  stretched  his 
legs.  "  There's  the  house  !  My !  how  the  pear  trees 
have  grown.     Let  me  out.     I'm  going  up  straight." 

"  Going  up  straight,  are  you  ?  "  echoed  the  skipper. 
"  My  !  you  are  a  mm  'un.  Well,  good  luck  to  you. 
Good-night !  " 

Hans  Golding  strolled  thoughtfully  along  the  bit  of 
path  that  leads  up  to  the  long  white  farmhouse.    First 

319 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

he  whistled  a  popular  street  song  to  hide  his  embarrass- 
ment ;  presently  he  dropped  into  a  very  slow  low  Psalm 
tune,  just  enough  to  keep  up  his  courage.  He  stood 
still  at  a  little  distance  from  the  house,  and  his  mur- 
mured whistle  sounded  like  a  sad  and  solemn  dirge. 
There  it  lay  before  him,  the  small  group  of  long  familiar 
buildings,  nestling  in  a  clump  of  beech  and  poplar — the 
beeches  were  losing  colour,  the  poplars  trembled  slightly 
in  the  heavy  air.  And  over  the  shiny  walls  of  home- 
stead and  outhouses  the  lengthening  shadows  fell.  He 
shivered,  for  he  suddenly  thought  that  the  wind  was 
cold.  Thus,  as  it  now  lay  before  him,  he  had  never 
beheld  the  old  place  during  all  the  years  of  his  town  life. 
He  had  often  seen  it,  especially  of  winter  nights,  as  it 
shone  in  the  prosperous  splendour  of  a  sunny  summer 
day. 

Ben  Bultman  came  out  of  the  barn,  and  turned  to 
look  at  the  stranger. 

"  Why,  it's  you  !  "  he  said.  Not  another  word  of 
greeting. 

"  Yes,  it's  me.  Baas,"  answered  Hans,  clinging  hard 
to  his  umbrella. 

"  Well,  and  what  have  you  come  for  ?  I  can't  say 
we  want  you  here." 

To  this  apostrophe  Hans  in  vain  sought  a  fit  reply. 

"  You've  got  better  friends  in  the  village  ;  go  on  to 
them." 

"  No,  I  haven't !  "  said  Hans.  He  said  it  with  such 
a  burst  that  he  coughed  to  hide  his  confusion. 

"  Well,  I  can't  stand  dawdling  here.  They  haven't 
left  me  a  herd  to  help  me.  I've  got  to  look  after  the 
cows  myself." 

"  I'll  help  you,"  cried  Hans,  pulling  off  his  Sunday  coat. 
320 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

"  You  !  "  said  the  old  man  with  undisguised  contempt. 
"  You  never  were  much  of  a  hand  at  farm  work.  More 
of  a  hindrance  than  a  help." 

"  Well,  I'll  do  my  best,"  said  Golding,  following  his 
old  master  into  the  shed. 

"  It  don't  matter  much  anyhow,"  remarked  Bultman, 
busy  with  the  fodder  ;  "  the  whole  thing's  to  be  sold  up 
next  week." 

"  'Tis  hard  lines,"  replied  Hans,  up  to  his  elbows  in 
hay. 

"  No,  it  ain't  hard  lines !  "  cried  the  farmer,  "  for 
isn't  it  all  my  fault  ?  Why  don't  you  say  it's  all  my 
fault  ?  " 

"  How  do  I  know  whose  fault  it  is  ?  "  said  Hans 
Golding. 

"  They  all  say  it's  mine,  if  they  know  or  not,"  replied 
Bultman. 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  have  said  it  even  if  I'd  known. 
It  isn't  a  pleasing  thing  to  say  to  any  man.  Baas,  and  it 
wouldn't  be  my  place  to  say  it,  anyhow." 

Ben  Bultman  stopped  for  a  moment,  his  arms  full  of 
hay,  and  stared  at  his  former  farm-boy. 

"  Well,  you  are  a  rum  'un  !  "  he  said  ;  "  but  it  was  not 
my  fault — though  that  don't  make  it  no  easier.  I've 
been  hanging  on  by  the  teeth  for  years." 

They  worked  on  in  silence  till  everything  was  ready 
for  the  night. 

"  Well,"  said  Hans  as  he  wiped  the  perspiration  from 
his  forehead,  "  it  comes  natural  like  to  be  doing  this 
sort  of  thing  again." 

"  No,  it  never  came  natural  to  you,"  replied  the  old 
man,  but  not  ungraciously.  "  You  v,'as  town-bred,  and 
you  never  took  to  farming.  You're  no  better  and  no 
21  321 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

worse  at  it — that  I  can  see — than  ten  years  ago,  when 
you  left  it.  A  good  thing  for  you,  Hans,  that  you  went 
to  the  town  :  you've  made  your  way.  Others  have  got 
to  begin  theirs  that  are  too  old  at  the  start  to  go  far." 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you,"  said  Hans  timidly. 

"  Nobody  asked  you,"  came  the  gruff  reply. 

"  Baas,  may  I  say  something  ?  I  haven't  got  any 
money,  as  you  know,  or  I'd  gladly  give  it  you." 

"  You  haven't  got  any  to  give,  so  you  may  say  it," 
responded  Bultman. 

"  But  everything  that  I  am  I  owe  to  you,"  continued 
Golding,  standing  with  his  coat  still  off  in  the  gathering 
twilight  of  the  shed. 

"  Well  ?  "  said  Bultman. 

"  It  was  in  this  very  shed  that  my  mother  died," 
spake  the  other,  dropping  his  voice,  "  at  just  such  a 
twilight  hour  as  this.  It  was  here  you  found  me  and 
took  me  to  live  with  you.  And  if  I  can  honestly  earn 
my  bread  this  day,  I  owe  it  to  you,  Baas." 

"  Get  away,"  said  Bultman. 

"  Baas,  it  is  true  that  Dina  is  goin'  out  to  service  ?  " 

"  It's  no  business  of  yours,"  said  Bultman. 

"  P'raps  not.     But,  Baas,  she  ain't  fit  to  go." 

"  D you  !  "  said  Bultman. 

Hans  Golding  waited.  "  I,"  he  stuttered  at  last. 
"  I — look  here,  Baas :  I've  always  loved  you  for  what 
you  did  for  me,  and  she's  your  daughter.  I  should  never 
have  thought  of  such  a  thing,  of  course,  but,  if  you  was 
thinking  of  an  honest  home  for  her — as  they  say  you're 
off  by  yourself  to  work  for  your  bread  in  foreign  parts 
— you  know  what  I've  got,  I  could  support  her  decent 
— and  it  might  be  better  than  service  for  such  as  she." 

Baas  Bultman  stood  facing  his  visitor  in  silence. 
322 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

"  I— I  beg  your  pardon,"  gasped  the  other,  very  red 
and  miserable,  "  I  know  that  it's  a  great  presumption 
on  my  part.  But  I  couldn't  bear  to  think  of  your 
fretting  your  heart  out  with  your  daughter  in  service 
here." 

"  My  what  ?  "  cried  Bultman.  "  You  idiot !  Nobody 
has  ever  talked  to  me  for  twenty  years  of  my  heart !  " 
Then  he  added,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  "  I  never  knew 
you  wanted  to  marry  my  daughter." 

"  I  never  did,"  replied  Hans. 

"  Humph  !  Well,  let  us  talk  business.  You  think 
that  you  owe  me  a  debt,  and  so  you  want  to  pay  it. 
Have  I  understood  you  aright  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  owe  you  a  debt,"  answered  Hans. 

"  Well,  make  your  mind  easy  ;  you  don't." 

"  But  you " 

"  Hist  !  You  are  a  fool,  Hans.  Do  you  think  a 
man  like  me  does  a  kind  action  for  nothing  ?  You  owe 
me  nothing.  Go  home  and  be  content.  Marry  the  girl 
you  told  us  about  when  you  were  here  five  years  ago." 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry  her,"  said  Hans. 

"  Did  you  love  Dina  ten  years  ago — five  years  ago  ?  " 

"  No,"  replied  Hans,  "  I  shouldn't  have  presumed." 

"  Tut,  tut !  love  presumes.  I  know  that  it  did  in 
my  day.  And  do  you  think  I'd  let  you  marry  my 
daughter  out  o'  gratitude  to  me  ?  I  don't  want  grati- 
tude, you  fool ;  I've  no  right  to  it,  I  tell  you.  Listen 
well !  " 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Hans. 

"  When  I  took  you  it  wasn't  for  any  desire  of  mine. 
I  swore  that  I  wouldn't  touch  you,  a  workhouse  brat ! 
If  it  had  been  left  to  tne  you'd  not  have  spent  a  night  in 
my  house.     You'd  be  a  charity  boy  to-day." 

323 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

"  Is  that  true  ?  "  stammered  Hans. 

"  True  as  Gospel  truth." 

"  A  charity  boy  to-day,"  gasped  Hans.  "  I  should 
have  come  to  nothing.  A  charity  boy  to-day."  Then 
his  face  cleared.  "  But  what  made  you  take  me  ?  "  he 
said. 

"  A — a  relative  of  mine,"  answered  Bultman  promptly. 
"  She  came  to  me  and  offered  to  pay  for  you.  '  He's  a 
charity  child,'  she  says ;  '  God  has  sent  him,'  she  says. 
She  called  me  a  wicked  name  ;  I  didn't  care  for  that — 
every  one  has  always  called  me  a  hard  'un.  So  I  am. 
But  she  offered  to  pay  for  you  :  that  was  different,  and 
I  took  you.     Pay  for  you  ?     I  made  you  work." 

"  Pay  for  me  ?  "  repeated  Hans  stupidly.  "  Yes, 
you  made  me  work."  But  again  a  bright  thought 
struck  him  :  "It  was  you  that  'prenticed  me  to  the 
carpenter  at  Overstad  ?  "  he  cried. 

"  Not  I.  She  paid  every  penny  she  had  to  do  it.  I 
should  have  kept  you  at  the  farm.  '  He  can't  do  the 
work,'  says  my  relation.  '  He  must,'  says  I.  '  I'll 
pay  for  him  to  learn  a  trade,'  says  she.  *  More  fool 
you,'  says  I.     And  she  did." 

Hans  Gelding  heaved  an  immense  sigh  and  stood 
silent. 

"  So,  you  see,  you  owe  me  nothing.  I  got  plenty  of 
work  out  of  you  while  it  lasted,  my  lad." 

"  But — this  relation  ?  "  exclaimed  Hans. 

"  Do  you  want  to  marry  her  ?  "  responded  the  other, 
with  a  laugh. 

"  No  ;  but  I  would  like  to  thank  her,"  answered 
Hans. 

"  You  can't,"  replied  Bultman  shortly.  "  Go  home 
in  peace,  you  zany,  and  marry  the  girl  you  want  to 

324 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

marry.  Marry  a  girl  for  her  own  sake,  not  her  father's, 
and  leave  me  and  my  daughter  in  peace." 

"  Father,  aren't  you  coming  ?  "  said  a  voice  behind 
him.  Dina  stood  in  the  door  with  a  lamp.  The  lamp 
shone  on  her  deUcate  features  and  light-brown  eyes. 
Truly  she  would  never  have  done  for  a  farmer's  wife, 
thought  Golding.  They  all  went  across  to  the  farm- 
house, and  soon  sat  down  to  the  evening  meal.  It  was 
a  silent  repast.  Dina  spoke  once  or  twice  of  old  friends, 
of  old  times,  of  the  city ;  but  the  cloud  of  a  great  sadness 
hung  over  them  all. 

Towards  the  end  the  farmer  went  out  of  the  kitchen 
to  fetch  a  bottle  of  brandy,  and  Hans  and  Dina  re- 
mained together.  She  began  to  speak  at  once  of  the 
great  trouble,  of  her  grief  for  her  father,  soon  to  fare 
out  into  the  wide  world  alone. 

"  And  you  ?  "  said  Hans. 

"  I  don't  mind,"  she  answered  quickly. 

"  Don't  mind  ?  Oh,  Dina  !  Don't  mind  going  out 
to  service  ?     You're  not  fit  for  it." 

She  looked  at  him,  trying  to  say  something,  but  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears ;  she  broke  down  and  fled. 

"  Baas,"  said  Hans,  when  the  old  man  came  back 
with  his  bottle,  "  I've  been  thinking  it  all  over  during 
supper,  and  I  find  I  was  mistaken— I'm  sorry,  very 
sorry,  you  didn't— I  mean,  I'm  sorry  I  don't  know  who 
did— and— but,  it  needn't  make  any  difference  about 
Dina— if  you'd  let  me  ask  her— if  you  don't  think  I'm 
presuming— I  could  support  her  easy— I— I  wish  you'd 
let  me  ask  her— just  ask  her— to  marry  me  anyhow." 

"  You  owe  me  nothing,"  grumbled  Bultman ;  "I 
never  had  any  money  to  spare." 

"  Please,  I  should  hke  to  marry  her  all  the  same." 

325 


WHY    HE    LOVED    HER 

"  Then  you  love  her,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  love  her." 

"  And  why,  pray  ?  " 

"  I  don't  care  a  d ,"  answered  Hans,  who  had 

never  been  known  to  swear. 

At  that  moment  Dina  came  in  with  two  glasses. 

"  Well,"  said  old  Bultman  grimly,  "  don't  you  want 
to  thank  the  person  who  insisted  on  my  keeping  you, 
and  who  paid  for  your  apprenticeship  out  of  her  own 
money  in  the  bank  ?  " 

Dina  dropped  both  glasses. 

"Oh,  father,  have  you  told  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  father,  "  and  he  insists  on  marry- 
ing you  out  of  gratitude." 

"  Gratitude  be  hanged  !  "  said  Hans.  And  he  got 
up  and  ran  round  the  table  to  snatch  her  hand.  "  I 
want  to  marry  you  because  I  love  you.  And  I  love 
you — because  I  love  you,"  he  said. 


326 


In  Extremis 

GOOD-BYE,  doctor !  " 
"  Good-bye,  child  !  " 

"  And  thank  you  kindly." 

He  did  not  answer,  but  went  down  the  garden-path, 
between  the  hollyhocks  and  sunflowers,  an  old  man, 
bent  with  gazing  deep  into  other  people's  sorrows,  yet 
the  tears  swam  in  his  kindly  eyes  as  he  shambled  on 
through  the  sunset  summer  shadows. 

Roosje  turned  by  the  dairy  door  ;  she  went  back 
among  the  blue  and  white  tiles,  the  sweet  smell  of  milk 
all  around  her.  She  was  comely  with  the  freshness 
of  eighteen  years'  up-growing  in  Dutch  pastures  ;  her 
arms  and  neck  stood  out,  perhaps  a  shade  too  delicately 
veined,  against  the  tight-fitting  black  of  her  peasant 
costume  and  against  her  gold-pinned  muslin  cap. 

"  Dawdling  !  "   said  her  stepmother's  angry  voice. 

Roosje  started.  "  I  was  thinking,"  she  answered 
confusedly. 

"  Of  the  cows  ?  " 

"  No,  mother,  not  of  the  cows." 

"  Of  sweethearts,  then  ?  " 

Roosje  hesitated.  "  No,  not  exactly  of  sweet- 
hearts," she  answered  slowly. 

"  Psha !  what  should  a  farmer's  daughter  think 
of  but  one  of  them  two  ?     You  ought  to  be  ashamed 

327 


IN    EXTREMIS 

of  yourself,  Roosje,  and  that's  what  I've  been  wanting 
to  say  to  you.  If  it  was  an  honest  young  man  of  your 
own  sort  as  came  courting  you,  well,  so  much  the 
better,  says  I  :  there's  mouths  enough,  anyway,  to 
feed  in  this  family.  But  no  decent  girl  'd  allow  a  young 
Squire  to  say  he  was  sweet  on  her." 

"  He's  never  said  a  word  like  it !  "  cried  the  girl, 
her  cheeks  flaming,  "  never  said  a  word  all  the  world 
couldn't  hear.  We  was  friends  ever  since  we  was 
little  children.     We've  always  played " 

"  I  know  what  I  know,"  replied  the  big  farm  dame 
sententiously,  and  moved  towards  the  door;  but  her 
step-daughter  intercepted  her. 

"  What  do  you  know  ?  "  exclaimed  Roosje  :  "  you're 
new  to  these  parts,  and  you  don't  understand  our 
ways.  It's  different  up  in  the  North  from  what 
we  do  here.  We've  always  played,  all  our  lives, 
with  the  Squire's  children." 

"  Have  you  ?  Stop  now,  then,"  replied  the  step- 
mother viciously.  She  pushed  through  the  door,  but 
pausing  to  aim  straight  her  final  shot  :  "  Madame's 
maid  from  the  Chateau  told  me  they  all  know  he  says 
that  he's  sweet  on  you,"  she  added  ;  "  but  he  don't 
intend  to  marry  you,  he  says." 

Roosje  remained  standing  in  the  golden  shadows, 
among  the  shiny  tiles ;  and  the  sweet  smell  of  the 
milk  was  all  around  her. 

The  Squire's  son  came  across  the  dreamy  fields,  in 
a  haze  of  deep-blue  evening,  the  lazy  cattle  lifted  their 
heads  to  see  him  pass.  He  stopped  by  the  dairy  door  : 
a  little  dog  leapt  about  him  and  licked  his  hand. 

"  I  join  my  ship  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

"  I  know,"  answered  Roosje. 
328 


IN    EXTREMIS 

"  I  have  been  here  just  a  month,"  he  continued. 
"  It  has  been  a  very  happy  time." 

She  did  not  reply. 

"  Seeing  my  mother  again,  and  my  father,  and  all 
the  others.     What  a  lot  of  us  there  seem  to  be." 

"  Not  more  than  here,"  she  said. 

"  And  where  many  pigs  are,  the  wash  gets  thin," 
he  said,  quoting  a  common  proverb. 

"  Gentlefolks  always  have  enough  to  eat,"  replied 
Roosje. 

"  Have  they  indeed  ?  Much  you  know  about  it ! 
You  know  nothing  about  it.  You  know  nothing 
about  gentlefolks,  Roosje." 

"  No  indeed,"  she  said  humbly. 

"  I  mean,  about  their  necessities.  Now,  look  at  me, 
a  poor  sailor  man  with  half  a  dozen  brothers  and 
sisters.  Obhged  to  sail  alway  to  the  Indies  for  a  liveli- 
hood," he  laughed,  "in  the  service  of  Her  Majesty  the 
Queen." 

"  How  long  will  you  be  away  ?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Two  years,  at  the  very  least." 

"  The  poor  men's  wives !  "  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"  What  a  tune  it  is  !  " 

"  Oh,  I  dare  say  the  wives  don't  mind.  No,  I  won't 
say  that !  'Tis  a  hard  lot,  that  of  a  sailor's  wife.  I 
should  never  dare  to  offer  it  to  any  woman." 

She  looked  at  him  curiously.  "  Never  intend  to 
marry  at  all  ?  "  she  said. 

"  Oh,  some  day,  I  suppose,  when  my  seafaring  days 
are  over,  I  shall  settle  down  somewhere  with  a  bald 
brow,  a  middle-aged  spouse,  and  money-bags." 

She  shook  her  head.  "  That  doesn't  sound  nice," 
she  said. 

329 


IN    EXTREMIS 

"  Well,  what  can  I  do  ?  For  the  next  ten  or  fifteen 
years  I  can't  be  anything  but  a  sailor.  And  so  I  can't 
marry  if  I  would,  and  I  wouldn't  if  I  could."  He 
spoke  with  inward  heat,  as  if  arguing  more  against 
himself  than  to  her. 

She  rattled  the  milkpans,  moving  them,  looking 
away. 

"See  here:  don't  let  us  spoil  these  last  moments 
talking  about  a  dismal  future.  You  see,  I  have  come 
to  say  good-bye.  I  shall  often  think  of  the  Farm- 
house, Roosje  ;  think  of  the  times  when  we  all  played 
together  in  the  orchard  and  the  haylofts.  What  a 
jolly  round  dozen  we  were  !  And  now  one  of  us  is 
dead." 

"  Yes,  one  of  us  is  dead,"  she  assented  ;  for  he  had 
lost  a  brother  a  year  ago  from  typhoid.  She  repeated 
the  words  once  or  twice  among  her  milkpans  :  "  Only 
one  of  us  is  dead." 

"  Only  ?  Surely  that  is  enough  !  "  he  exclaimed, 
surprised. 

"  There  might  be  more,"  she  answered,  and  spilt  a 
great  splash  on  the  floor. 

"Lord,  what '11  your  stepmother  say!  You  a  milk- 
maid !  " 

"  I  wasn't  attending.  I  don't  think  I  ever  did  it 
before.     Now,  Jonker  Dirk,  I  think  you  had  better  go.' 

"  Go  ?     What   nonsense  !     I've   only   just   come." 

"  Mother  doesn't  like  it,"  said  Roosje,  blushing. 

"  Like  what  ?  Me  ?  Well,  she  won't  be  troubled 
by  my  presence  for  the  next  two  years.  Your  father 
was  a  fool  to  marry  that  woman,  Roosje." 

"  Oh,  Jonker,  hush !  " 

"  Sailors  speak  their  mind.     And  besides,  you  know 

330 


IN    EXTREMIS 

it,  without  my  saying  anything.  She  makes  you 
unhappy,  Roosje  :  I  hate  to  think  of  that  while  I'm 
away."  With  his  foot  he  pushed  the  splash  of  milk 
towards  the  little  farm  dog,  who  began  lapping  with 
great  wags  of  his  tail. 

"  She  means  weU,"  said  Roosje.  "  Good-bye,  Jonker. 
God  bless  you.     Good-bye." 

"  No,  in  thunder !  What  has  the  woman  been 
saying  to  you,  Roosje  ?  Come,  we  have  never  had 
any  secrets  from  each  other,  never,  since  I  told  you 
all  my  scrapes,  and  you — I  don't  think  you  ever  got 
into  any  scrapes,  not  into  real  bad  ones,  at  least,  like 
me.  Have  you  got  into  a  scrape  now  ?  "  He  looked 
at  her  good-naturedly,  smiling.  Then  suddenly,  with 
an  angry  change  of  face  and  voice — "  Don't  listen 
to  her  !  Don't  believe  her.  Whatever  she  says,  I've 
no  doubt  it's  a  lie  !  " 

Roosje  was  silent  for  full  ten  seconds.  Then  she 
answered,  still  looking  away — "  She  don't  think  I  ought 
to  have  talked  with  you  :  that's  all." 

The  great  veins  rose  up  on  his  neck.  "  Now  answer 
me  honestly  :  have  I  ever  said  a  word — one  word — 
to  make  me  deserve  that  ?  " 

"  No,  oh,  no !     Not  one  word.     But  people  will  talk." 

"  Talk  !  Who  talks  ?  Why,  I  am  going  away.  I 
have  had  a  very  happy  month  here.     Who  talks  ?  " 

"  They — they — oh,  it  doesn't  matter  one  bit." 
-  "  It  matters.     I  will  know."     His  voice  rang  low,  so 
strong  she  could  not  have  disobeyed  it. 

"  It's  only  stupid  servants'  talk,"  she  said,  the  words 
coming  as  if  they  were  being  dragged  forth  slowly 
through  a  loophole.  "  Your  mother's  maid  has  told 
my  mother  lies." 

331 


IN    EXTREMIS 

He  started  so  violently,  she  could  not  but  see  it. 
"  Tell  me  exactly  what  she  said." 

"  I  couldn't,  Jonker." 

"  You  must.  At  once.  In  an  hour  I  shall  be  gone, 
perhaps  for  good." 

"  I  couldn't."  She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands.  "  She 
said  you  had  said  things  you  never  could  have  said, 
and  everybody  had  heard  them." 

"  Well,  it  is  true,"  he  said  simply.  "  See  what 
parents  we  have,  you  and  I  !  I  told  my  mother,  for 
she  asked  me,  and  my  mother  told  her  maid  !  Well, 
what  does  it  matter  ?     I  am  going  away." 

She  took  her  hands  from  her  burning  face.  "Tell 
it  me,"  she  whispered.  The  shadows  fell  so  heavily, 
he  could  barely  see  her  outline  against  the  pewter 
cans. 

"  No." 

"  Tell  it  me,"     Her  voice  grew  softer  still. 

*'  Good-bye,  good-bye." 

"  Tell  it  me !  Tell  it  me ! "  The  words  barely 
sank  on  her  breath. 

"  God  in  heaven !  I  love  you,  but  I  cannot  marry 
you,  so  I  oughtn't  to  have  spoken  at  all." 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes.  You  love  me.  Of  course  you 
cannot  marry  me." 

"  I  never  should  have  spoken,  but  for  my  mother's 
misdoing !  What  can  I  do  ?  I  don't  want  you  to 
beheve  lies  about  me.    That  would  be  too  bad !  " 

"  You  love  me.  Of  course  you  can't  marry  me.  I 
don't  want  you  to  marry  me.  But,  just  for  a  Uttle, 
you  have  loved  me  all  the  same," 

"  How  can  I  marry  ?     I  cannot  marry  any  one." 

"  In  time,  when  you  come  back  bald-headed  and 

332 


IN    EXTREMIS 

with  medals — medals,  please ! — you  will  marry  a 
woman   in   your   own   rank   of   life." 

"  Confound  my  rank  of  life  !  When  I  come  back, 
Roosje,  I  shall  visit  you  in  your  own  farm-kitchen, 
and  wish  some  brave  fellow  joy." 

She  smiled,  but  he  could  not  see  that.  He  bent 
forward. 

"  Well,  then,  must  it  really  be  good-bye  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  moment !  One  moment  longer !  You 
love  me.    You  really  love  me  ?    Say  it  again." 

"  Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  saying  it  ?  It  cuts  me  like 
a  knife." 

"  Dear  Jonker,  it  needn't  do  that.  Listen  just  one 
moment.  One  moment  longer.  Mother  will  be  coming 
to  look  for  me.  I  also  have  got  something  to  say, 
Jonker.     I — I   also  have  got  something  to  say." 

"  That  you  don't  care  for  me  ?  Better  leave  it 
unsaid." 

"  Not  that— oh,  not  that !  " 

"  That  you  are  going  to  marry  some  one  else  ?  So 
much  the  better.  I  know  something  about  that.  My 
mother  told  me.  I  should  never — no,  not  even  now 
— have  spoken,  else." 

"It  is  a  he  !  "     She  cried  out  the  words. 

Alarmed,  he  hushed  her. 

"It  is  a  lie  !  What  I  want  to  say — what  I  must 
say  at  once — is  not  that,  oh,  not  that !  Oh,  so  different ! 
Jonker,  when  you  come  back  again  I  shan't  be  here. 
Listen! — don't  interrupt  me.  Oh,  Jonker,  do  you 
think  I  should  have  let  you  say  as  much  as  you  did — 
should  have  led  you  on  to  say  it — yes,  yes,  a  woman 
can  stop  a  man  or  lead  him  on — if,  if-— unless " 

"  What  ?  " 

333 


IN    EXTREMIS 

"  Jonker,  you  know  I'm  sometimes  ill.  Didn't  you 
ever  think  it  might  be  mother's  illness  ?  All  her  family 
die  of  it.  I  asked  doctor  on  purpose  this  evening.  I 
asked  him  to  come  and  see  me  on  purpose.  I  wanted 
to  ask  him  before  you  came  to  say  good-bye." 

"  You  ill !  "  he  cried.  "  Nonsense  !  you — all  pink 
and  white  ?  " 

She  shook  her  head  in  the  darkness. 

"  I  made  him  tell  me,"  she  said.  "  I  told  him  besides 
that  I  knew  abready,  and  that  was  true,  though,  of 
course,  it  does  sound  different.  I  can't  last  beyond 
the  winter,  he  says.  It  doesn't  really  much  matter. 
Tell  me  you  love  me,  Jonker  Dirk." 

"  It  isn't  true.     It  isn't  true." 

"  Yes,  it  is  true.  Nobody  '11  care,  when  you're 
away.  And  see  here,  Jonker:  it  has  brought  me  the 
great  big  happiness  of  all  my  Hfe — nothing  more,  any- 
how, could  come  after  that." 

"  It  isn't  true.     It  isn't  true." 

"  Say  again  that  you  love  me  before  mother  comes. 
Say  it  again." 

He  threw  his  arms  around  her,  he  drew  her  towards 
him.  "  I  love  you  ;  I  love  you  ;  I  love  you  !  "  He 
rained  kisses  on  her  upturned  face. 

"  Say  it  again.  Oh,  say  it  again.  You  see,  it  is 
the  last  time,  Jonker  !  " 

"  I  love  you,  I  love  you,  I  have  never  loved 
any  one  before,  dear :  I  shall  never  love  any  one 
again  !  " 

"  Ah,  yes,  you  will !  You  will  love  the  woman  you 
marry.  Promise  me,  for  my  sake,  you  will  marry  a 
woman  whom  you  love.  Money-bags  or  no  money-bags, 
Jonker,  you  will  marry  a  woman  you  love  ?  " 

334 


IN    EXTREMIS 

He  kissed  her  and  drew  her  towards  him  and  kissed 
her  again  and  again. 

"This  is  my  wedding  day,  you  see,"  she  whispered, 
'  but  it  isn't  yours,  Jonker — not  yours.  You  will 
marry  later  on — and  be  happy — very  happy — some 
day." 

The  pitch-dark  night  was  about  them  in  the  dairy. 
A  bell  tolled  in  the  distance.  The  little  dog  scrambled 
up  against  his  mistress,  yelping,  jealous,  distressed. 

"  Oh,  I  love  you,  I  love  you  !  "  she  murmured.  Then 
"  good-bye,"  she  said,  and  was  gone. 


335 


A  Bit  of  To-day 


"  T  TE  wdll  recover,"  said  the  half  a  dozen  doctors 

J-  JL  assembled  in  solemn  conclave  around  his  bed. 
So  he  died. 

The  wisest  of  them,  putting  on  his  admirable  chastened 
expression,  went  to  tell  the  widow.  The  dead  man,  as 
all  will  remember,  was  close  upon  eighty,  the  widow  not 
twenty-five. 

"  Dear  me  !"  she  said  nervously,  squeezing  the  two 
bull-pups  that  had  sat  up  in  her  lap  to  scowl  at  the 
doctor.  "  How  very  dreadful !  How  very  dreadful 
and  sad  !  Black  doesn't  suit  me  at  all !  "  This  last 
sentence  she  spoke  to  her  maid  when  the  doctor  had 
gone  away. 

She  was  Mrs.  Peter  van  Dobben,  one  of  the  wealthiest 
women  in  New  York  City.  Three  years  ago  she  had 
been  the  struggling  daughter  of  a  Baptist  minister  in 
that  same  place.  Frocks  were  her  struggle,  and  gloves, 
and  especially  boots.  Nine  brothers  and  sisters  grew 
up  underneath  her,  whom  she  hated  because  they 
seemed  to  be  pushing  her  out  of  what  home  she  had. 
She  was  like  a  sweet  flaxen  doll,  all  pink  and  fluffy.  Old 
Peter  van  Dobben,  the  millionaire  rubber  merchant, 
fetched  her  away  one  fine  morning  out  of  her  disdainful 
drudgery,  and  planted  her  in  a  big  bay  window,  with  a 

336 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

fine  view  of  other  bay  windows  peopled  by  lesser  mil- 
lionaires. 

Now,  three  short  years  later,  he  was  dead.  The 
childless  widow,  with  much  bejewelled  hand,  settled  her 
pretty  back  hair  and  talked  to  her  maid  of  fashions  in 
mourning.  Occasionally  she  wondered  about  the  will. 
A  will  is  an  important  consideration  to  the  childless 
young  widow  of  the  richest  old  corpse  in  New  York. 

The  next  thing  to  happen  was  that  she  knew  about 
the  will.  A  great  many  things,  of  course,  happened 
before — the  arrival  of  the  "  casket "  among  others — 
but  all  seemed  to  have  faded  away  into  forgetfulness  in 
the  face  of  the  enormous  fact  of  the  will.  It  had  been 
made  just  six  months  ago,  and  it  left  every  penny  old 
Peter  possessed  to  '"  my  nearest  relation  in  Holland." 

Mrs.  van  Dobben  put  her  black-bordered  pocket- 
handkerchief  into  her  pocket  at  once.  She  had  stopped 
crying,  even  in  public,  the  day  before  the  funeral.  The 
papers  said  her  self-command  was  wonderful. 

"  Who,  pray,  is  this  nearest  relation  ?  "  she  demanded. 

The  solicitor  could  not  tell. 

"  Find  out !  "  said  the  widow.  Her  tone,  he  thought, 
was  distinctly  unfitting,  considering  her  altered  circum- 
stances. He  began  to  talk  of  difficulties,  possible 
delays.    She  stopped  him. 

"  Telegraph  to  Consuls,"  she  said.  "  What  are 
Consuls  for  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes,"  replied  the  lawyer,  with  meditative 
noddings.  "  I  can  book  that,  of  course,  as  legitimate 
expenditure." 

She  looked  at  him  ;  suddenly  she  realized  that  she 
was  poor.  She  rose  with  a  not  ungraceful  movement, 
and  went  to  her  jewel-box  that  stood  upon  a  side 
22  337 


A    BIT  OF    TO-DAY 

table.  She  unlocked  it,  extracted  a  string  ol  pearls, 
and  almost  flung  them  in  the  lawyer's  face. 

"  My  dear  madam  !  My  dear  madam  !  "  he  pro- 
tested, bobbing  back  from  the  table. 

"  There  can  be  no  difficulty  about  the  matter,"  she 
said,  with  dignity.  "  Mr.  van  Dobben  came  of  a  very 
important  Dutch  family.  He  hardly  ever  spoke  of  his 
relations,  but  he  always  gave  me  to  understand  that  they 
were  highly  conected.  He  ran  away  from  school  in  his 
youth  as  a  cabin-boy.  There  is  no  particular  hurry, 
now  I  come  to  think  of  it.  Have  the  goodness,  Mr. 
Parsimmons,  to  make  the  necessary  inquiries." 

The  lawyer,  thus  dismissed,  went  away  and  did  a  lot 
of  cabling.  Not  with  immediate  success.  When  he 
called  at  "  the  van  Dobben  mansion  "  next  morning, 
he  was  informed  that  the  widow  had  sailed  at  daybreak 
for  Europe.  She  had  left  a  little  letter  for  the  lawyer. 
He  found  it  to  contain  the  torn  half  of  a  thousand- 
dollar  note,  and  the  curt  information  that  the  other 
half  would  be  his  if  he  stopped  his  inquiries  for  a  fort- 
night. 

Meanwhile  the  lady  lay  groaning  and  gurgling  in  her 
state  room.  She  never  could  endure  the  sea,  at  its 
smoothest ;  a  ripple  made  her  cry  out  for  death.  But 
death  came  not,  though  she  cried  for  him  very  often. 
Whereby  he  showed  that  he  knew  women,  and,  of  course, 
his  experience  of  their  weaknesses  is  large.  She  arrived 
safely  in  Liverpool,  and  she  pointed  out  to  the  waiter 
that  very  evening,  gently  but  firmly,  that  really  the 
steak  he  had  brought  her  was  a  trifle  overdone. 

She  scolded,  and  even  bullied,  the  maid  she  had 
brought  with  her  in  much  more  explicit  tones.  If  no 
man  be  a  hero  to  his  valet,  no  woman  is  an  angel  to  her 

338 


A   BIT   OF   TO-DAY 

maid.  The  maid  almost  forgave  her.  "  Something 
wrong  about  the  will,"  said  the  maid. 

In  the  solitude  of  boat  cabin  and  hotel  bedroom, 
Gladys  van  Dobben — her  father,  the  Baptist  minister, 
had  named  her  Hannah — would  draw  a  scrap  of  paper 
from  an  innermost  recess  of  her  silver-gilt  dressing-case, 
and  sit  staring  at  it  for  ten  minutes  at  a  stretch.  Im- 
mediately after  the  reading  of  the  will  she  had  gone 
straight  to  her  dead  husband's  desk  and  looked  over  all 
she  could  find  of  his  private  belongings.  In  a  drawer, 
put  away  by  itself,  she  had  found  the  letter  she  held  in 
her  hand. 

It  was  a  Dutch  letter ;  she  could  not  make  out  a 
sentence  of  it.  But  it  began,  "  Dierbare  broeder,"  and 
that,  she  felt,  must  stand  for  "  Dear  brother  "  ;  it  was 
signed  "Jacobus" — i.e.  Jacob — and  it  was  directed  from 
Slapsloot,  a  place,  as  revealed  by  the  postage  stamp,  in 
Holland.  The  date  of  the  letter  was  barely  a  fortnight 
previous  to  that  of  the  will.  Now,  old  Peter,  never 
loquacious,  had  rarely  referred  to  his  pre- American  days. 
Once  he  had  spoken,  with  energy,  of  an  only  brother 
who,  wiser  than  he,  had  resisted  the  temptation  to  marry. 
The  occasion  was  a  recent  one — the  night,  as  she  remem- 
bered too  distinctly,  preceding  the  making  of  the  will  For 
the  date  of  this  unknown  will  had  come  as  a  revelation. 

On  June  8  he  had  made  it.  On  the  yth  they  had  had 
that  stupid  tiff  about  Charlie.  It  was  absurd  of  old 
Peter  to  be  jealous  of  Charlie.  She  had  always  been  so 
careful  about  Charlie.  But  these  rich  old  curmudgeons 
were  all  hke  that.  He  had  laughed  away  the  quarrel, 
with  the  words,  "  Let  us  say  no  more  about  it "  ;  and 
the  next  day  he,  who  had  sworn  a  hundred  times  that  she 
was  his  only  relative  and  should  inherit  all  his  property, 

339 


A    BIT   OF    TO-DAY 

had  gone  and  made  a  will  leaving  everything  to  this 
unmarried,  unknown  brother.  She  had  understood  the 
brother  to  be  long  since  dead.  She  had  always  behaved 
decently  to  Peter.     Poor  Charlie  ! 

She  had  started  immediately  for  Europe,  without  any 
definite  purpose,  perhaps,  but  with  several  indefinite 
ones,  in  search  of  "  Jacobus."  Who  was  Jacobus  ? 
She  pictured  him  to  herself  as  a  sort  of  younger  Peter, 
but  with  probably  more  of  that  old-world  refinement 
which  American  money-making  is  apt  to  rub  off.  She 
had  once  met  a  couple  of  Dutch  gentlemen  in  society. 
They  spoke  English  with  ease.  She  had  thought  them 
singularly  delightful — "  Knickerbocker,"  you  know — 
Washington  Irving. 

All  that  she  cared  about  in  life,  except  Charlie,  now 
belonged  to  "  Jacobus."  She  thought  it  out  constantly 
during  the  voyage  :  her  boudoir  in  the  New  York  house, 
with  the  genuine  French  tapestry  (wonderful  imita- 
tion), belonged  to  Jacobus  ;  the  two  iron-grey  ponies  at 
"  The  Grange  "  belonged  to  Jacobus ;  the  cottage  at 
Newport  was  his.  The  idea  became  an  obsession. 
She  counted  up  a  dozen  lesser  items — her  pretty  round 
lips  cursed  Jacobus. 

"  Well,  I  guess  we're  there !  "  said  the  maid,  with  a 
swoop  ;  and  commenced  unlocking  a  trunk  in  the  bed- 
room at  the  Eusion  Hotel. 

Her  mistress  sat  up.  "  Don't  unpack.  We  go  on 
this  evening,  by  the  night  boat,  to  Holland." 

"  What  place,  please  ?  "  cried  the  maid. 

"  Slapsloot,"  said  the  widow  van  Dobben. 

"  And  Where's  that  ?  "  cried  the  maid. 

"  I  haven't  the  faintest  idea  ;  but  we  shall  be  there 
to-morrow." 

340 


I 


1 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

It  is  superfluous  to  add  that  they  were. 

Not,  however,  without  some  sUght  complications,  con- 
sequent upon  their  being  compelled  to  quit  paths  along 
which  the  English  language  still  possesses  a  more  or  less 
uncertain  value. 

On  arriving  at  "  The  Hook,"  Mrs.  van  Dobben  had 
inquired  for  the  city  of  Slapsloot.  It  had  been  rather 
disconcerting  to  discover  that  the  place  in  any  form, 
big  or  little,  was  unknown  at  the  Hook.  A  time-table 
proved  inefficacious.  She  had  gone  on  to  Amsterdam — 
and  everything  was  most  delightfully  quaint  and  unlike 
anything — and  the  hotel  porter  found  Slapsloot  for  her 
ultimately  in  the  "  Postal  Guide." 

"  I  am  greatly  worried,  and  very  badly  treated,  and 
it's  all  very  sad  and  a  great  shame,"  said  Gladys,  lying 
back  on  a  couch  and  surveying  the  canals,  "  but,  dear 
me!  I  wonder  what's  going  to  happen.  I  feel  very 
curious  and  interested.  It's  all  so  exciting,  especially 
Jacobus." 

In  the  biggest  room  of  the  biggest  hotel  of  the  very 
small  town  nearest  Slapsloot  she  prosecuted  her  inves- 
tigations as  to  the  best  methods  of  "  getting  there." 
She  had  taken  a  guide  with  her.  It  was  a  great  satis- 
faction to  reflect  that  here,  at  least,  she  was  miles  away, 
literally  and  figuratively,  from  the  inquisitive  New  York 
lawyer.  She  had  nearly  a  week  left — quite  enough  for 
her  projects,  whatever  these  might  turn  out  to  be. 

"  Inquire,"  she  said  with  bold  grandiloquence,  "  about 
the  mansion  of  Mynheer  Jacobus  van  Dobben  !  " 

Mine  host  shook  his  head  ;  but  he  was  a  heavy  man, 
caring  for  nothing  outside  his  immediate  ken. 

"  We  shall  find  out  when  we  get  there  "  ;  and  she  got 
into  what  they  call  "  the  conveyance."     She  thought 

341 


A    BIT    OF   TO-DAY 

it  most  cunning.  A  sort  of  mediaeval  fly.  But  as  soon 
as  it  began  to  tilt  across  the  cobbles  she  clung  on  to  the 
seat,  with  a  face  that  jerked  and  worked  like — well,  like 
molten  lead,  for  instance,  when  suddenly  cooled.  She 
had  brought  an  EngUsh-speaking  guide  with  her  from 
Amsterdam,  but  she  left  him  behind  at  the  hotel.  For 
she  thought  it  would  be  a  nuisance  at  her  brother-in- 
law's  house  ;  he  would  talk  about  her  hunting  for  Slap- 
sloot,  her  inquiries  and  uncertainties.  That  was  not  at 
all  her  idea.  She  intended  to  inform  Jacobus  that  she 
had  talked  so  constantly  of  him  with  Peter,  it  seemed  to 
her  as  if  she  had  known  and  appreciated  him  all  her  life. 
Yes,  she  would  say  "  appreciated."  All  at  once,  as  she 
hung  there,  quivering,  opposite  her  frightened  and  dis- 
gusted servant,  she  realized  distinctly  what  she  had 
come  for  and  what  she  intended  to  do. 

She  intended  to  marry  Jacobus,  seeing  that  she  knew 
him  to  be  unmarried.  She  had  not  understood  this 
clearly  before,  but  she  felt  sure  of  it  now.  There  were 
difficulties  in  the  way,  but  she  was  an  American,  a  beauty 
— she  smiled  to  herself — had  she  not  married  that  in- 
veterate old  bachelor,  Peter,  as  soon  as  she  wanted  to  ? 
The  idea  of  legal  disablement,  such  as  exists  in  England, 
of  course  lay  entirely  outside  her  sphere  of  thought. 
She  was  going  to  marry  Jacobus  ;  she  simply  must. 
In  the  shaking  wagonette  she  reflected  on  her  ponies,  the 
tapestry  in  the  New  York  boudoir,  the  cottage  at  New- 
port— she  simply  must.  And  why  not  ?  She  had 
married  Peter.  She  pictured  to  herself  this  younger 
brother,  a  sort  of  Washington  Irving  Peter,  as  has  been 
suggested  before. 

She  drove  on  for  hours  through  bleakest  country ; 
getting  nervous,  she  probed  the  driver,  but  he  only  shook 

342 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

his  head.  When  houses  appeared  in  sight,  she  vainly 
questioned  :  Slapsloot  ?  The  answer  took  the  form  of 
another  mile  or  two  across  the  moor. 

At  last  there  came  a  turning  to  the  longest  road  on 
record.  A  white  mansion  stood  among  gardens ;  a 
small  village  lay  some  distance  beyond.  The  driver 
lifted  his  whip  and  pointed. 

"  Aha  !  "  said  Mrs.  van  Dobben.  "  Drive  up  to  the 
house,   if   you   please !  " 

When  he  understood,  the  lethargic,  lubberly  lad 
obeyed  her. 

It  was  a  handsome  place,  beautifully  kept ;  Gladys 
nodded  approval. 

"  Just  like  Peter !  "  she  said,  in  passing  a  big  notice- 
board  :  "  Trespassers  beware  !  "  An  old  gentleman  was 
walking  in  front  of  the  house  with  a  little  brown  dog. 
The  dog  yelped.  An  old  lady  sat  on  a  bright  green  seat, 
knitting.  The  widow  at  once  noticed  the  old  gentle- 
man's resemblance  to  Peter.  The  old  lady  disconcerted 
her  with  violent  heart-bumpings.  For  she,  the  old  lady, 
seemed  so  palpably  the  old  gentleman's  wife. 

The  vehicle,  with  its  unwonted  contents,  stopped  in  a 
final  rattle.  For  the  old  gentleman  had  posted  himself 
in  front  of  it ;  the  little  dog  barked  very  loud. 

The  beautiful  American  had  recovered  her  self- 
possession.     "  Mynheer  van  Dobben  ?  "  she  said. 

"By  no  means,  madam,"  came  the  prompt  Dutch 
reply. 

The  stolid  boy  took  no  notice. 

"  I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  faltered  Gladys. 

The  old  gentleman  answered  testily  in  English  that 
his  name  was  Pock. 

"  Perhaps,"  continued  the  fair  widow,  annoyed  by  his 

343 


A    BIT   OF   TO-DAY 

manner,  "  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  ask  you  to  direct 
the  driver  to  the  house  of  Mynheer  Jacobus  van  Dobben 
at  Slapsloot  ?  " 

"  I  never  heard  the  name ;  there's  no  such  person," 
replied  the  old  gentleman. 

"  Indeed,  there  doesn't  seem  to  be  any  other  house  of 
importance  in  sight,"  said  Gladys,  desperately,  to  the 
maid. 

The  dog  never  ceased  barking  ;  the  surly  old  gentle- 
man had  walked  away  to  the  house ;  the  old  lady  sat 
watching. 

"  Drive  on  to  the  village,"  said  Gladys  in  disgust. 
The  village  proved  a  very  small  one  ;  a  sudden  shower, 
long  expected,  broke  across  it  with  a  violence  that  sent 
the  very  hens  skeltering  for  cover ;  the  wagonette 
dripped.  In  the  deserted  street  a  rather  nice-looking 
dwelling  revived  Gladys'  spirits  ;  it  turned  out  to  be 
the  parsonage  ;  the  minister  and  his  wife  were  both  out; 

"  I  am  certain  Jacobus  hves  at  Slapsloot,'  said 
Gladys,  half  crying.  "  I  must  see  him  ;  I  must  speak 
to  him.    I  cannot  make  it  out  at  all." 

"  Please  let  us  go  back  before  we're  murdered,"  said 
the  maid. 

"  I  won't,"  replied  the  mistress,  with  acerbity.  "  Do 
you  think  I've  come  across  from  New  York  without 
reason  ?  My  whole  future  depends  on  my  speaking  with 
my  dead  husband's  brother  at  once." 

"  You  might  inquire,"  began  the  maid,  "  in  a  day  or 
two " 

"  If  I  could  employ  others — if  I  could  wait  a  day  or 
two,"  interrupted  Gladys,  "  I  should  have  been  utterly 
crazy  to  have  come  at  all."  And,  indeed,  already  her 
whole  simple  plan  of  campaign  had  taken  shape.     Of 

344 


A    BIT    OF   TO-DAY 

course,  she  intended  to  present  herself  as  the  owner  of 
Peter's  many  millions.  Jacobus  must  have  engaged 
himself  to  marry  her — must  have  married  her — before 
he  learnt  the  truth. 

She  had  already  got  to  hate  most  thoroughly  the 
slow,  suspicious  Dutch  peasantry  before  the  driver  had 
succeeded,  amid  the  rainy  wretchedness  and  desolation, 
in  unearthing  an  individual  who  shook  favourable 
response  to  her  weary  iteration  of  inquiry. 

"  Jaap  Dobbe  ?  Why  didn't  you  say  Jaap  Dobbe  ?  " 
remonstrated  the  individual.  Gladys'  face  suddenly 
beamed.  "  He  knows  ? "  she  exclaimed  excitedly. 
"  Eh,  driver  ?  Mynheer  van  Dobben,  eh  ?  "  Animated 
confabulation  followed  between  the  two  Dutchmen — 
then  came  another  drive  through  brushwood  and  over 
moorland.  At  last  a  wide  white  building  appeared  amid 
loneliness.     Before  this  the  driver  drew  up  with  a  bump. 

"  What  now  ?  "  demanded  Peter's  widow. 

"  Jaap  Dobbe,"  said  the  driver. 

"  Absurd,"  replied  the  widow. 

The  place  was  a  small  farmhouse.  The  green  door 
opened  slowly ;  a  ponderous  figure  solemnly  framed 
itself  in  the  doorway. 

"  Jaap  Dobbe  ?  "  cried  the  driver. 

The  figure  nodded  assent. 

A  moment  of  terrible  hesitation — then  Mrs.  van 
Dobben  flung  herself  out  of  the  wagonette,  and  hurried 
through  the  pouring  wet  into  the  cottage. 

The  fat  man,  amazed  beyond  power  of  protest,  had 
stood  aside  to  let  her  pass.  She  sank  down  on  a  straw- 
bottomed  chair — in  her  ultra-fashionable  mourning — 
and  covered,  for  a  moment,  her  face  with  one  hand. 

Then  she  straightened  herself,  and  looked  at  the  man. 

345 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

He    was    enormous — purple-faced,    quite    common — a 
peasant,  and  in  peasant  dress. 

Some  absurd  mistake,  of  course — not  a  bit  like  thin, 
rarefied  Peter. 

She  hesitated,  uncertain  how  best  to  end  this  ridi- 
culous episode. 

Then,  feeling  she  must  say  something,  she  remarked — 

"  Slapsloot  ?  " 

The  fat  man  gave  a  voluble  affirmative  reply. 

"  Van  Dobben  ?  "  she  continued  desperately. 

"  Jaap  Dobbe,"  said  the  man,  and  a  lot  more. 

Again  she  hesitated.  She  realized  that  one  thing 
must  be  done  at  once,  and  she  did  it.  Closing  her  eyes, 
with  sickening  tension,  she  drew  a  paper  from  under  her 
corsage  and  laid  it  on  the  table. 

When  she  opened  her  eyes  the  man  was  grinning  pain- 
fully and  nodding. 

She  knew  that  this  was  Jacobus. 

Awful  as  that  moment  was  she  did  not  lose  her  pre- 
sence of  mind.  In  a  flash  of  lightning  that  seemed  to 
burn  across  her  brain  she  saw  all  the  things  over  yonder 
in  America,  all  the  things  that  made  life  life  :  she  walked 
away  to  the  window  ;  she  looked  out  and  came  back 
again.  "  Peter  dead,"  she  said,  and  swept  her  hand 
down  the  crape  of  her  skirt. 

"  Ja — ja,"  replied  Peter's  brother. 

They  stood  facing  each  other  for  some  minutes,  inevit- 
ably inarticulate.  Outside,  the  dreary  wagonette  waited 
with  the  maid,  in  the  rain.  Gladys  went  and  closed  the 
door.  At  last,  the  sheer  impossibility  of  all  prelimin- 
aries driving  her  to  desperation — 

"  Much  money,"  she  said. 

He  stared  at  her. 

346 


A    BIT   OF    TO-DAY 

"  Money  mine,"  she  continued,  and  in  spite  of  herself 
she  blushed  crimson. 

When  she  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  she  saw  he  had 
not  understood ! 

A  few  drops  of  spite  gathered  in  her  lovely  blue  eyes  ; 
then  she  knitted  her  brows  and  pondered. 

Presently  she  drew  a  silver  florin  from  her  purse  and 
laid  it  on  the  table  ;  he  watched  her.  She  put  her  finger 
on  the  coin  and  then  rapidly  waved  her  arms  in  a  circle. 
He  understood — he  understood — much  money  ! 

She  pointed  her  finger  to  her  breast. 

He  took  off  his  cap.  Thank  Heaven  !  he  had  under- 
stood. 

He  stood  bowing  before  her.  Yes,  certainly  he  had 
understood. 

She  turned  to  the  window  and  sat  down  deliberately, 
with  her  back  to  him,  feeling  that,  in  the  first  place,  she 
must  resolutely  collect  her  thoughts. 

Her  husband  had,  of  course,  lied  to  her  from  the  first 
about  his  relations.  She  could  feel  annoyed  but  not 
angry  with  him  for  that ;  she  would  have  done  it  herself. 

The  most  natural  thing  now  looked  to  leave  the  house 
immediately  and  go  back  again.  Where  ?  To  what  ? 
Penniless.  To  New  York.  The  wealthy  widow  van 
Dobben.  Back  to  father  and  mother.  One  idea  had 
dominated  her,  as  she  now  wondered,  from  the  moment 
of  the  reading  of  Peter's  will. 

She  was  pretty,  but  how  many  people  were  pretty ! 
And  she  would  be  a  great  deal  less  pretty  than  the  rich 
Mrs.  van  Dobben  had  been.  She  remembered  how  old 
Peter's  offer  had  come  to  her  as  a  windfall,  incredible, 
too  good  to  be  true.  Her  own  mother  had  exclaimed.  Is 
it  possible  ?    Her  father  had  said  it  was  the  Lord's  doing  ; 

347 


A    BIT  OF    TO-DAY 

she  herself  had  trembled  daily  lest  old  Peter  should  die 
before  they  had  been  to  the  church.  Such  things  did 
not  happen  twice  in  a  woman's  lifetime.  No  second 
millionaire — the  ponies — the  boudoir  with  the  hangings  ! 

She  had  taken  Peter.  She  stole  a  cautious  side- 
glance  at  Jacobus.  He  was  the  owner  of  Peter's  millions, 
and  that,  as  she  well  knew,  in  our  day  is  all-sufficient. 

She  would  start  him  in  London  ;  New  York  would 
follow.  It  is  easy  to  make  up  your  mind  when  no 
choice  is  left  you.  In  a  few  days  he  would  hear  about 
his  inheritance,  and  then,  certainly,  he  wouldn't  marry 
her. 

At  the  thought  of  this  she  gave  a  gasp.  Rising  from 
her  chair,  she  went  and  took  the  letter  he  had  written, 
and  held  it  under  his  nose.  Her  little  white  jewelled 
fingers  moved  under  the  two  opening  words. 

"  Dierbare  broeder."  She  goggled  up  at  him  with 
her  innocent  blue  eyes. 

"  Dierbare  broeder  "  ?  She  tried  to  pronounce  the 
words.  He  roared  with  laughter  ;  but  when  he  saw  the 
sentimental  tears  gathering  in  the  lovely  eyes  he  stopped 
abruptly,  and,  looking  thoroughly  ashamed  of  himself, 
stroked  with  one  red  paw  the  little  white  hand. 

She  looked  out  into  the  pouring  rain.  Could  she  stay 
here  that  night  ?  With  signs  she  explained  her  dilemma. 
He  caught  at  her  meaning.  Fortunately,  the  small 
farmhouse,  like  so  many  others,  had  two  tiny  rooms, 
unlet,  for  summer  lodgers.  He  threw  open  a  door,  and 
exhibited  them,  scrupulously  neat. 

"  At  least  he  is  clean,"  she  thought.  "  How  clean 
all  these  people  are  !  Peter  was  right  about  that."  She 
went  to  the  entrance  and  called  "  Bridget !  "  The  maid 
arrived,   sour-faced.    Jacobus,    stumbling    awkwardly, 

348 


A    BIT   OF   TO-DAY 

fetched  the  bags  and  wraps.  Gladys  wrote  a  note  to  the 
guide,  bidding  him  come  next  morning  to  the  village  inn 
at  Slapsloot  ("  Is  there  one,  I  wonder  ?  "  she  reflected), 
and  sent  it  off  by  the  driver.  As  the  wagonette  rumbled 
away  into  the  rain-mist  across  the  heath,  she  felt  like  the 
leader  of  men  when  the  smoke  hid  his  burning  ships. 

Braced  by  this  consciousness  of  a  great  emergency, 
she  began  to  play  her  little  part.  She  opened  her  big 
dressing-bag  and  extracted  its  gilt-stoppered  blandish- 
ments. Soft  perfumes,  soft  lawns,  and  laces  ;  an  atmos- 
phere of  refinement  and  feminine  attraction  spread 
about  her.  But  this  sort  of  thing,  as  she  well  under- 
stood, is  repellent  to  a  rustic,  unless,  by  being  mixed 
with  simplicity,  it  becomes  irresistible.  In  the  midst  of 
her  inevitable  luxury,  therefore,  she  was  most  natural 
and  charming.  She  thoroughly  enjoyed  the  humble  fare 
he  set  before  her  ;  she  helped  scornful  Bridget  to  lay  the 
table.  Constant  misunderstandings  gave  rise  to  un- 
ceasing merriment.  They  "  supped,"  with  beer  and 
steel  forks,  amid  much  gesticulation  and  roars  of  laughter. 
Suddenly  Gladys  sobered.  A  tear  lay  on  her  cheek. 
"  Poor  Peter  !  "  she  said.  And  she  showed  Jacobus 
Peter's  portrait  in  her  locket.  It  took  a  long  time  and 
much  motion  for  Jacobus  to  explain  that  Peter  had  been 
better-looking  in  his  youth. 

"  More  like  Jacobus  ?  "  Well,  yes,  more  like  Jacobus. 
Conversation,  however,  languished  after  supper.  The 
success  of  the  evening  was  certainly  the  widow's  fearful 
faces  over  a  drop  of  Jacobus'  best  Dutch  gin.  But, 
after  that,  all  three  were  glad  to  get  to  bed.  As  Jacobus 
lighted  the  candle,  he  asked  his  new  sister-in-law's 
name — "  Naam  ?    Naam  ?  " 

When  he  had  understood  it — not  before  it  was  written 

349 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

down — he  shook  his  head  over  the  bit  of  paper.  For 
"  Gladys  "  in  Dutch  means  "  slippery  ice,"  and  there 
are  proverbs  about  not  venturing  near  it. 

Happily  unconscious  of  this  unlucky  coincidence,  the 
pretty  widow  retired  to  rest  in  her  cupboard  of  a  room. 
The  poverty  of  her  surroundings  strengthened  and 
encouraged  her.  After  a  period  of  preliminary  wake- 
fulness she  slept  soundly,  and  awoke  to  the  chirruping 
of  birds  behind  a  sunlit  window-blind. 

She  lay  revolving  her  immediate  future.  She  must 
marry  Jacobus  without  delay — any  moment  failure  over- 
whelming might  befall  her — he  would  learn  some  sort 
of  English,  and  have  the  best  London  tailor ;  in  her 
three  years  of  millionaire  society  she  had  met  dozens  of 
brutes  no  better  than  he.  After  all,  she  lived  in  the 
twentieth  century,  which  knows  but  one  class  distinc- 
tion— gold. 

She  was  aroused  from  these  not  unpleasant  reflections 
by  the  muffled  music  of  gigglings  and  scufflings  aloud. 
Little  feminine  squeaks  of  excitement  mingled  with 
lower  guffaws.  She  leapt  from  her  bed  and  peered  be- 
hind the  blind. 

What  she  saw  was  Bridget  romping  round  the  cow 
with  Jacobus.  Bridget,  it  appeared — in  sudden  reminis- 
cence of  her  Irish  home — was  attempting  to  milk  that 
quadruped,  and  Jacobus  was  doing  his  best  to  prevent  her. 

When  Gladys  got  back  into  bed  again,  she  pulled  the 
sheet  over  her  ears,  and  furiously  bit  a  hole  in  it. 

The  next  moment  she  rang  her  hand-bell,  peal  upon 
peal,  for  her  maid.  She  was  as  sharp  as  she  dared  to 
be  with  this  menial,  for  American  domestics  are  not 
European.  "  How  common  the  common  people  are  !  " 
she  said  to  herself.     She  sent  a  message  to  Jacobus 

350 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

that  she  would  have  breakfast  in  her  room.     Jaoobus, 
Bridget  informed  her,  had  gone  to  the  village. 

When  she  made  her  appearance  in  the  kitchen  a 
couple  of  hours  later,  she  found  her  brother-in-law 
waiting  there  in  company  with  a  half -grown  youth.  The 
latter  informed  her  in  broken  but  intelligible  English 
that  he  was  the  son  of  the  local  pastor,  studying  for  a 
schoolmaster,  and  that  Jacobus  had  fetched  him  to  act 
as  interpreter.  She  hesitated  for  a  moment ;  then  she 
boldly  put  Jacobus's  letter  in  the  lad's  hands.  Jacobus 
turned  purple.  "  Nay,  nay,"  he  exclaimed.  Then  he 
seemed  to  think  better  of  it,  and  drew  back  the  hand  he 
had  extended. 

With  amazement  the  widow  van  Dobben  heard  the 
contents  of  the  letter.  It  was  a  confession,  after  close 
on  a  quarter  of  a  century.  The  younger  brother  wrote 
to  tell  the  other  that  he,  the  younger,  on  the  father's 
death,  had  kept  the  entire  inheritance  of  more  than  two 
hundred  pounds.  He  had  done  so  because  a  partition 
would  signify  the  sale  of  the  cottage,  ruin.  But  his 
horrible  secret  of  wrong- doing  left  him  no  rest  by  night 
or  day.  So  he  wrote  now  at  last,  entreating  pardon, 
promising  restitution.  What  would  become  of  him 
he  knew  not.  The  letter  was  addressed  to  Mr.  Peter  van 
Dobben,  in  America.  Of  course  it  had  at  once  reached 
the  Peter  van  Dobben.  For  all  Jacobus  could  guess,  the 
runaway  was  long  since  dead.     Perhaps  he  hoped  so. 

Receiving  no  answer,  he  had  accepted  this  view,  not 
ungratefully.  Peter,  on  his  part,  had  stuck  to  his  ori- 
ginal opinion,  that  all  his  Dutch  connexions  were  best 
left  untraced. 

And  now  Peter's  widow  had  brought  him  the  letter. 
Probably  with  a  message  from  Peter,  for  she  was  a  rich 

351 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

lady,  a  great  lady :  he  could  not  believe  that  his  brother, 
in  dying,  would  have  turned  him  out  of  his  humble 
house  and  home.  Tortured  by  uncertainty,  he  had 
gone  to  fetch  the  scholar.  He  now  asked  humbly  what 
the  message  was. 

Gladys  saw  her  chance  at  once.  "  I  have  no  message," 
she  said. 

His  face  fell ;  the  great,  good-natured  red  face  turned 
almost  pale. 

"  Of  course  he  will  have  to  refund  the  money,"  she 
added.  She  even  said  "  principal  and  interest,"  for 
in  business  matters  a  woman  rarely  knows  where  to  stop  ; 
but  the  schoolboy's  English  did  not  stretch  the  length  of 
"  principal." 

"  Ja — ja,"  said  Jacobus,  and  his  fat  body  shook. 
She  eyed  him  contemptuously,  this  ridiculous  Dutch 
peasant,  with  his  conscience  and  his  comic  misfortune, 
one  of  the  wealthiest  magnates,  had  he  but  known 
it,  of  New  York.  He  might  know  it — to-morrow. 
She  resolved  not  to  go  too  far. 

She  sat  down  by  the  kitchen  table,  and  her  mourning 
fell  about  her  in  very  becoming  folds.  She  was  delight- 
ful to  look  at,  and  she  knew  it.  She  ought  to  have  been 
enjoying  a  period  of  dignified  seclusion  at  "  The  Grange." 
Her  heart  cried  out  in  hate  of  Peter. 

"  Tell  Mr.  Jacobus  van  Dobben,"  she  said,  "  that  his 
brother  died  enormously  wealthy." 

"  /« — /«."  said  Jacobus. 

"  His  wish  was  that  all  his  money  should  pass  to 
Mr.  Jacobus " 

"  Eh  ?  "  said  the  latter. 

"  On  condition  of  his  marrying  me." 

"  I — I — I  would  rather  not,"  said  Jacobus. 
352 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

The  boy  checked  a  grin,  and  translated  a  more  courteous 
rejection  of  the  offer. 

"  Is  the  man  mad  ?  "  cried  the  enraged  widow.  But 
a  little  later  she  condescended  to  more  rational  parley 

"  And  ruin  ?  "  she  said,  staring  at  Jacobus.     "  Ruin  ?  " 

"  Heaven  help  me  !  "  he  replied  ;  but  a  lot  of  little 
beads  stood  out  on  his  forehead. 

She  rose  ;  she  sailed  up  the  rough  kitchen  once  or 
twice  ;  then  she  stopped  in  front  of  the  man. 

"  You  refuse  to  marry  me  ?     Refuse  ?  " 

"  I — I — would  rather  not,"  said  Jacobus. 

She  looked  long  at  his  distracted  yet  dogged  counte- 
nance. Then  she  sank  down  by  the  table  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"  It  is  I  who  am  ruined,"  she  sobbed,  her  face  in  her 
hands,  "  for  Peter  has  left  Jacobus  all  his  money,  and 
trusted  his  honour  to  marry  me." 

Jacobus  needed  no  translation  of  the  tears,  which  most 
greatly  distressed  him.  The  words,  when  he  under- 
stood them,  seemed  to  trouble  him  even  more. 

"  My — my,  what  ?  "  he  stammered. 

"  Honour,"  repeated  the  youth,  in  huge  enjoyment  of 
the  scene. 

Jacobus  waited  a  long  time — and  the  widow  wept  a 
great  deal — before  he  said  huskily,  "  I'll  do  it." 

The  widow  stopped  crying,  sat  up,  and  bade  the  boy 
go  for  his  father.  Her  idea  of  European  marriage  laws 
was  built  up  on  Mr.  Jingle's  special  licence,  Wilkie 
Collins'  "  Man  and  Wife,"  and  a  recent  Scotch  scandal 
in  New  York  society.  In  Dakota  you  could  be  married 
in  five  minutes ;  Europe  was  slow,  aristocratic  ;  you 
would  probably  need  twelve. 

But  it  took  an  hour  and  a  half  to  fetch  the  parson. 
23  353 


A    BIT    OF    TO-DAY 

Meanwhile  Jacobus  withdrew  to  the  yard,  with  a  promise 
to  return  which  she  did  not  apprehend.  She  took  a 
novel  from  her  bag  and  tried  to  read  it. 

"  Madam,"  said  the  minister,  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  kitchen.  He  was  a  long-necked  individual,  with 
a  look  skywards,  and  every  word  that  he  uttered  was 
important.  "  Madam  !  " — he  looked  from  Gladys  to 
Jacobus  and  back  again — "  I  understand  you  wish  to 
marry  this  worthy  person.  Well,  what  have  I  to  do 
with  that  ?  " 

"  You  speak  very  good  English,"  replied  Gladys, 
smiling  more  sweetly  than  she  need  have  done  had  the 
remark  been  truer. 

The  minister  bowed  stately  approval  and  waited  for 
more. 

The  widow  van  Dobben  laid  down  her  yellow-back 
novel. 

"  Marry  us,"  she  said. 

"  It  shall  be  very  pleasant  to  do  so,"  replied  the 
minister,  "  if  spared." 

"  At  once,"  said  the  widow  van  Dobben. 

"  It  cannot !  "  exclaimed  the  minister  ;  "  the  banns 
"  He  had  looked  out  this  word  in  his  son's  diction- 
ary before  starting. 

"  A  special  licence  !  "  cried  Gladys. 

"  Will  want  a  fourteen  night." 

"  A  fortnight !     Why  not  say  three  months  ?  " 

"  And  now  I  am  coming  to  consider  him,  madam, 
when  did  your  husband  retire  ?  " 

"  Some  weeks  ago,"  answered  Gladys,  blushing  crim- 
son. 

"  You  cannot  in  our  country,  then,  remarry  for  nearly 
a  year." 

354 


I 


A    BIT   OF   TO-DAY 

The  widow  van  Dobben  put  her  black-bordered  bit 
of  cambric  in  front  of  her  face,  and  burst  into  very  real 
tears. 

"  Nay  !  nay  !  "  remonstrated  Jacobus,  who,  of  course, 
had  not  understood  a  word.  The  minister  rapidly  en- 
lightened him. 

Meanwhile  Gladys  sobbed  on,  disconsolate,  crushed. 
Good-bye  to  the  ponies  and  the  tapestry. 

Her  distressful  beauty  much  exercised  the  minister. 
He  began  to  speak  in  tenderest  tones. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  he  said,  "  a  friend  is  coming.  He 
will  help  you.  The  vehicle  is  arrived  from  the  town, 
and  your  guide  ;  and  it  has  brought  a  gentleman,  a 
compatriot,  inquiring.  I  see  them  at  the  inn.  I  am 
thinking  I  hear  rumblings." 

Jacobus  was  thinking  so  too,  for  he  went  to  the  door. 
A  moment  later  he  moved  his  portly  body  aside,  letting 
pass  Mr.  Parsimmons,  the  American  lawyer. 

"  Mrs.  Peter  van  Dobben,  I  am  glad  to  have  found 
you,"  said  the  lawyer. 

"  But  you've  lost  your  thousand  dollars,"  replied  the 
widow  with  animus. 

"  I  am  not  so  certain  of  that."     The  lawyer  smiled. 

"  It  wants  three  days  to  your  fortnight " 

"  Even  though  it  wanted  four  !  I  came  after  you  as 
quickly  as  I  could,  for  on  the  day  of  your  departure 
I  received  a  sealed  envelope  from  a  friend  of  your  late 
husband,  inscribed  to  be  sent  to  Mr.  Parsimmons  twenty- 
four  hours  after  the  reading  of  the  will." 

"  Well  ?  well  ?  "  stuttered  the  widow,  tearing  holes 
in  her  handkerchief. 

"  It  contained  a  second  will,  madarn,  made  a  couple 
of  hours  after  the  first.     In  it  he  left  you,  with  the  excep- 

355 


A    BIT   OF   TO-DAY 

tion  of  a  considerable  legacy  to  his  brothei  " — Mr. 
Parismmons  made  a  provoking  pause — "  all  his  property." 

"  The  villain  !  "  shrieked  Gladys. 

"  A  strange  comment,"  said  the  lawyer  coolly.  "  You 
shall  pay  me,  mistress,"  he  added  to  himself,  "  for 
this  journey."  Aloud,  he  continued — "  For  reasons  I 
am  unable  to  appreciate,  your  lamented  husband  wished 
to  create,  during  a  brief  period,  an  erroneous  impression 
in  your  mind." 

"  The  mean,  spiteful  villain  !  "  wept  Gladys. 

"  You  are  left  entirely  free  to  marry  whom  you  like." 
The  lawyer  stole  a  look  at  Jacobus.  "  There  is  only 
one  exception.     A  Mr.  Charles " 

"  Hold  your  tongue !  "  exclaimed  Gladys,  rising. 
She  was  the  richest  widow  of  New  York  ;  she  could 
afford  to  bully  a  solicitor.  She  walked  with  stately 
step  to  the  door. 

"  And  what  is  the  end  of  it  all  ?  "  questioned  the 
puzzled  Jacobus. 

"  Your  brother  has  left  all  his  money  to  his  wife," 
replied  the  minister,  "  but  it  seems  there  is  a  legacy  for 
you." 

Jacobus  gave  a  "  shoof  "  of  triumph. 

"  Then  I  shall  marry  Brigitta,"  he  said. 


1 


356 


A  Comedy  of  Crime 

IN  the  placid  summer  sunset  the  village  smithy  rested. 
Surely  there  is  nothing  more  suggestive  of  repose 
from  labour  than  a  village  smithy  with  a  fire  that  is 
turning  grey. 

Under  that  great  beech  the  brawny  smith  sat  thought- 
ful. His  big  arms,  in  the  sleeves  they  seldom  wore  ere 
nightful,  hung  idle  across  his  bigger  knees.  The  hard 
toil  of  the  day — of  the  week — was  over.  On  the  fields, 
and  the  neighbouring  cottages,  and  the  silent  road,  lay 
a  drowse  of  gathering  darkness.  It  was  all  very  peace- 
ful and  tender,  with  an  occasional  murmur  or  tinkle; 
night  was  approaching,  the  happy  summer  night,  in 
which  even  slow  men's  senses  are  stirred  by  the  thought 
of  the  fairies'  awakening  ;  the  kine  lowed  from  the  dis- 
tance, full  of  the  day's  calm  memories,  in  buttercup 
content. 

The  smith  sat,  his  black  brows  frowning  heavily, 
thinking  of  nothing  at  all. 

From  the  homestead  over  the  way,  a  shiny  white 
building,  uncomfortably  spruce,  there  issued  a  long  thin 
figure,  in  sombre  clothing,  which  figure,  majestically 
crossing  a  hundred  yards  of  field  and  garden-plot, 
advanced  toward  the  sleeping  smithy.  The  smith  sat 
well  back,  his  round  eyes  a-goggle,  and  snorted. 

357 


A    COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

"  Neighbour  Blufkin,  I  wish  you  a  good-evening," 
said  the  lanky  old  person  in  the  black  tail-coat. 

"  Good-evening,  Neighbour  Boll,"  grumped  the  smith. 

The  first  speaker  blinked  his  eyes.  "  To-morrow  is 
the  blessed  Sabbath,"  he  said. 

"  Damn  the  blessed  Sabbath  !  "  was  the  unexpected 
reply. 

Elder  Boll  uplifted  his  lean  hands  to  the  listening 
skies.  An  awful  silence  spread  down  from  them  upon 
the  little  group — the  smithy,  the  beech,  the  two  men. 

"  I  beg  its  pardon,"  presently  began  the  smith,  his 
cheerful  face  ashamed,  "  I'm  sure  I  beg  the  blessed 
Sabbath's  humble  pardon.  I  didn't  mean  to  say  as 
much  as  that.  It's  blasphemy.  But  you  make  me  do 
it.  Neighbour  Boll." 

"  I  forgive  you  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Elder  Boll. 
"  But,  I  hope,  neighbour,  that  you  now  have  duly 
considered  my  warning  and  exhortation  of  the  night — 
let  me  see — the  night  before  last."  He  cautiously  let 
himself  down  on  the  seat  beside  his  burly  victim,  a 
proceeding  of  considerable  difficulty,  as  the  victim  did 
not  budge. 

"  The  night  before  last  and  every  other  night," 
spitefully  retorted  the  smith.  "  It's  just  jaw — jaw — 
jaw.  Well,  you  may  jaw  till  Doomsday.  I  can't  run 
away." 

"  Doomsday,  indeed  !  "  echoed  the  elder,  and  dread- 
ful thunder  rolled  with  relish  through  his  tones.  ' '  Doom  ! 
Doom  !    Doom  !  " 

"  Now  it's  you  that's  swearing,"  said  the  smith, 
reproachfully,  and  wedged  the  tobacco  down  into  his 
pipe. 

"  I  shan't  get  tired  !     Don't  fear,"  continued  Boll, 

358 


A   COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

wagging  his  cadaverous  face  to  and  fro.  "  No,  I'll 
warn  you,  neighbour  ;  I'll  reprove  you  !  I'll  exhort  you 
— there's  no  escaping  me,  Blufkin.  '  Sarah,'  says  I 
to  my  wife  every  night,  '  I'll  never  rest  till  I've  brought 
that  man,  like  a  penitent,  into  the  sacred  edifice  again.'  " 

"  I'd  have  gone  back  a  month  ago,  if  it  hadn't  been 
for  you,"  snorted  the  smith. 

"  Ah,  there  speaks  the  voice  of  the  scorner.  But 
you  needn't  try  to  escape  me,  neighbour.  No  peace  shaU 
I  know — nor  you — till  I've  saved  John  Blufkin  from 
his  reprobate,  hardened,  impenitent  condition,  saved 
him  Uke  a — like  a " 

"  Don't  you  burn  your  fingers,"  interposed  the  smith, 
threateningly. 

"  Brand  from  the  burning  !  "  triumphantly  exclaimed 
the  elder,  catching  at  the  simile.  He  sat  up,  or  rather 
"  clung  up,"  as  well  as  he  could,  on  his  end  of  the 
seat,  and  eyed,  with  calm  certitude,  the  big  mass 
beside  him. 

"  Now,  look  ye  here  !  "  bellowed  the  smith.  "  See 
what  happens.  Last  Kermesse-time — and  damn  all 
Kermesses,  says  I — that's  not  blasphemy,  but  religion — 
last  Kermesse-time — there  never  was  a  little  misfortune 
befell  in  a  village  or  Kermesse  was  to  blame  for  it — 
["  Amen !  "  said  the  elder] — last  Kermesse-time  I 
finds  a  young  fool  a-trying  to  kiss  my  girl  Suzie  against 
her  wiU.  In  the  booth  it  was,  where  the  five-legged 
calf  was — my  girl !  "  He  started  up  with  a  roar,  and 
shook  his  mighty  fist  in  the  frightened  elder's  face. 

The  latter,  shrinking  back  precipitately,  lost  his  un- 
certain balance  off  the  seat's  edge,  and  subsided  upon 
a  heap  of  rusty  barrel-hoops  that  lay  handy  by  the 
smith's  door.     He  was  up  again  in  a  moment,  with  a 

359 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

squeak.  As  he  hurriedly  and  anxiously  began  rubbing 
himself,  the  rude  blacksmith's  laughter  rang  loud  and 
long. 

"  Why  the  devil  can't  j^ou  sit  when  you  sit  ?  "  said  the 
smith.  "  WTiat's  the  use  of  seating  yourself  like  that 
beside  as  good  a  bench  as  ever  bore  a  weight  like  mine 
on  to  nothing  at  all  ?  " 

"  On  to  barrel-hoops,"  corrected  the  old  man, 
savagely.  "  Untidy  heaps  of  rubbish  lying  about  a 
respectable  man'shouse,  and  on  Saturday  evening,  too  !  " 

"  I'm  not  a  respectable  man,"  retorted  the  smith,  with 
vigour,  "and  nobody  knows  it  better 'n  you.  \Mien 
I  hears  my  girl  cry  out  I  goes  for  that  young  fellow,  and 
I  gives  him  what  for.  I  don't  say  I  didn't  give  him 
more  than  what  I  intended " 

"  You  half  killed  him,"  interrupted  the  elder,  viciously. 
"  You'd  had  too  much,  and  he'd  had  too  much,  and  you 
forgot  that  vengeance  is  Mine " 

"  Yours  ?  "  cried  the  indignant  smith.  "  You  think 
you  can  put  your  finger " 

"  Blufkin,  you  are  a  heathen  !  I  pity  you  !  "  piped 
the  shriU  old  man,  with  immeasurable  scorn.  "  Surely 
you  know  that  vengeance  wasn't  yours,  but " 

"  Yes,  that's  what  the  magistrate  said,"  continued 
Blufkin,  suUenly,  "  '  Don't  you  know,'  says  he,  '  that 
the  police  are  there  to  repress  misconduct  ?  '  Police  ! 
Repress  !  Damn  the  police  !  I  wouldn't  apologize,  not 
on  a  red-hot  gridiron,  for  swearing  at  them  !  " 

"  I  am  an  old  man,"  said  Elder  Boll,  with  admirable 
precaution,  "  and  I  teU  you,  you  are  a  profane  brawler. 
And  what  did  you  get  for  your  pains  ?  Eight  days' 
imprisonment.     For  the  rest  of  your  life  you  stand 

marked  a " 

360 


A    COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

"  Don't  say  the  word  again  !  "  burst  in  the  enraged 
Blufkin. 

"  Well,  I'll  only  think  it,"  retorted  the  elder.  "  All 
the  village  thinks  it,  and  always  will." 

The  other  ground  his  teeth,  and  the  veins  stood  out 
black  upon  his  forehead. 

"  And  therefore  I  say  unto  you  repent,"  continued 
the  elder,  sweetly  gazing  at  the  pale-blue  sky.  "  You 
just  come  back  to  church  ;  we'll  all  see  that  means  you're 
sorry.  Henk,  that  you  half  killed,  '11  see  you're  sorry. 
He  won't  mind.  You  just  come.  We'll  see  you're 
sorry.  That  '11  be  repentance,  atonement,  remorse,  a 
begging  of  everybody's  pardons  for  the  public  offence  ; 
a  humbling  of  yourself  in  the  day  of  your  abasement." 
He  rose  up,  in  all  his  rusty  lankiness,  and  projected  his 
piercing  finger  at  Blufkin' s  chest. 

"  You  go  home,"  gurgled  Blufkin. 

The  elder  carefully  surveyed  his  companion's  counte- 
nance, and  then  suddenly  walked  off  without  saying 
good-night. 

It  was  almost  dark  now.  In  the  softly  shaded  night, 
all  balm  and  tranquil  happiness,  the  blacksmith's  pretty 
daughter  that  the  Kermesse  row  had  been  about, 
sweet,  simple  Suzie,  the  apple  of  her  father's  eye,  came 
down  the  quiet  country  road  on  her  return  from  the 
weekly  mission  meeting.  Beside  her  walked  Peter  Boll, 
the  elder's  son,  that  was  learning  for  lay  evangelist,  a  sort 
of  electro-plated  parson. 

"  How  sweet  the  air  is  !  "  said  Peter. 

"  It  is,"  said  Suzie. 

"  But  not  as  sweet  as  you,"  suggested  Peter. 

"  How  silly  !  "  answered  Suzie. 

*  It's  the  truth  !  "  cried  the  lovesick  swain. 
361 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

"  Gospel  truth  ?  "  demanded  Suzie,  thereby  catching 
the  future  theologian  on  the  horns  of  a  dilemma. 

"  Well,  it's  true  enough  for  you  and  me,"  he  made 
cautious  reply.  "  Don't  you  like  to  hear  me  say  it, 
Suzie  ?  "  he  continued. 

"  Of  course  I  like  it  in  a  way,"  frankly  answered  the 
girl.  "  Leastwise  I  suppose  I  shall  when  you've  spoken 
to  father." 

"  I'll  speak  to  your  father  as  soon  as  I  can.  You  don't 
think,  Suzie,  there's  any  chance  to-morrow  ?  " 

But  Suzie  shook  her  head. 

"  If  father  'd  been  a-going  to  church  to-morrow,  he  'd 
have  got  himself  shaved  at  the  barber's  to-night." 

The  young  man  sighed.  "  Still,  there's  no  knowing  for 
certain,"  he  ventured.     "If  the  spirit  was  to  move  him — " 

Suzie  shook  her  head  all  the  harder.  "  The  spirit 
couldn't  move  him  unshaved,"  she  said. 

"  Father  is  that  set  on  it !  "  groaned  Peter.  "  He 
hasn't  a  good  word  for  the  smith.  '  Jailbird,'  he  calls 
him.  '  Jailbird.'  I  get  sick  of  the  word " — Suzie 
stamped  one  pretty  foot — "  don't  you  get  angry,  Suzie: 
he  is  an  unrighteous  unbeliever.  Father's  only  thinking 
of  his  soul." 

"  You  leave  my  father's  soul  alone,"  said  Suzie. 

"  I'm  not  meddling  with  it,  but,  you  see,  I  ain't  an 
elder.  When  I've  been  ordained  a  preacher — I  shall 
have  to  meddle  with  it  then  !  "  He  lifted  a  complacent 
smile  to  the  lofty  vault  of  heaven.  A  solitary  star 
returned  the  smile. 

"  My  own  father-in-law  !  "  he  added.  "  I  shall  have 
to  convert  him  then." 

"  You'll  find  it  pretty  hard  work,"  replied  Suzie,  with 
a  shrug  of  her  shapely  shoulders. 

362 


A   COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

"  Pooh !  I  tell  you  I'm  bound  to  convert  him,  A  pretty 
name  I  should  get  as  a  preacher,  if  I  couldn't  convert 
my  own  father-in-law." 

"  Well,  you  try,"  exclaimed  Suzie,  in  a  pet.  "  He's 
not  your  father-in-law  yet,  and  I'm  not  at  all  sure  he 
ever  will  be.  Father  's  worth  two  of  you,  Peter.  He 
licked  Henk  for  making  me  cry  out.  You'll  never  lick 
Henk  !  " 

"  He's  stronger  'n  me,"  replied  Peter ;  "  I  must 
think  of  my  good-conduct  test.  If  anybody  was  to  show 
impediment ' ' 

"  Oh,  there's  nothing  wrong  about  your  good-con- 
duct test,  I'll  be  bound.  Poor  father  !  You  wouldn't 
have  licked  Henk." 

"  Licking's  sinful :  the  Bible  says  we  should  turn  the 
other  cheek." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  I  ought  to  have  done  to  Henk," 
remarked  Suzie,  complacently.  "  It  was  silly  of  me  to 
cry  out  like  that,  and  at  Kermesse-time  too.  He  meant 
no  harm,  but  he'd  drunk  too  much." 

"  Suzan,  for  shame  !  "  The  aspirant  preacher  fell 
back. 

"  Henk  isn't  half  a  bad  fellow !  I  like  him,"  cried 
Suzie,  wilfully.  They  stood  still  by  the  fence  round  the 
smith's  garden,  where  the  side-road  curves  into  the 
laurel  bushes. 

"  Say  another  word,  and  I  will  thrash  him !  "  cried 
the  infatuated  lover. 

"  Do,"  said  a  hearty  voice,  and  a  figure,  stepping  forth 
from  the  shade  of  the  bushes,  brushed  the  candidate  aside 
as  a  broom  might  sweep  away  a  cobweb.  "  You'll  have 
to,  if  you  stop  another  minute,  for  I'm  going  to  kiss 
Suzie  again." 

363 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

"  Don't.  Go  away,"  said  Suzie.  She  almost  let  the 
two  sentences  run  into  one. 

"  There's  two  things  I  want  to  tell  you,  Suzie,  before 
I  do,"  continued  Henk.  "  First,  I'm  sorry  I  was  a  brute 
to  frighten  you.  Secondly,  your  father  didn't  hurt  me 
much.  AH  the  talk  about  death's  door  was  malicious 
slander,  set  about  by  some  people — they  best  know  why." 
He  shot  the  last  sentence  at  Peter. 

"  Don't  shout  so,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  "  gasped  Suzie. 

But  her  warning  came  too  late.  A  big  head  appeared 
over  the  tall  fence,  and  the  smith's  loud  bass  demanded  : 

"  Suzie,  who's  with  you  there  ?     Come  in." 

"Father's  standing  on  that  horrid  rain-barrel," 
whispered  Suzie.  "  It's  all  right,  father.  Only  Peter 
Boll,  walking  home." 

"  You  come  in  at  once  !  "  The  smith  stumbled  off 
his  rain-barrel. 

"  Now  you  mark  this,"  declared  Blufkin,  as  soon  as 
his  rosy-faced  daughter  made  her  innocent  entry  into 
the  kitchen.     "  I'll  have  no  flirtation  with  Peter  Boll." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Suzie.     "  Mother  !  " 

The  cheeriest,  healthiest,  handsomest  old  cluck  in  the 
village  immediately  responded  to  the  cry  of  her  chick. 

"  Now,  don't  you  talk  foolishness,  Blufkin,"  inter- 
posed the  fat  vrouw,  laughing,  because  she  always 
laughed  when  she  spoke,  unless  there  were  cause  for  tears. 
"  I  suppose  you  don't  want  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
country  to  marry  at  aU  ?  " 

"  I  don't  say  that." 

"  Well,  it  looks  as  if  you  meant  it.  One  young  fellow 
comes  courting  her,  and  you  give  him  a  black  eye  ; 
another " 

"  He's  a  wild  'un,"  interrupted  the  smith. 

364 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

"  Granted  that  he  be  a  bit  wild  before  marriage.  You 
was  wild  after.     And  Peter  Boll.     Too  good,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  thundered  the  smith.  "  You've  hit  it,  old 
lady.  Peter  's  too  good.  No  son-in-law  of  mine  shall 
turn  up  the  whites  of  his  eyes  at  his  wife's  father.  I've 
enough  of  the  old  man's  preaching ;  I  won't  stand  the 
son's."  He  banged  his  fist  on  the  table  at  "  won't," 
and  Suzie  screamed.  "  '  Jailbird ! '  says  the  old 
hypocrite.  '  Jailbird  ! '  pipes  the  young  one.  I'm  a 
jailbird,  am  I  ?  "  He  threw  out  his  chest  and  faced 
the  two  women. 

"  Well,  you  are,  after  a  way,"  repHed  the  wife,  thinking 
to  soften  him. 

"  I'm  a  jailbird,  am  I  ?  "  he  repeated  quietly,  turning 
to  his  daughter. 

"  Oh,  father,  I  don't  know." 

"  Yes,  you  do.     Am  I  a  jailbird  ?  " 

"  Of  course  you  are,  in  a  way,"  stammered  Suzie, 
beginning  to  cry. 

"  Of  course  I  am.  Now,  mark  my  words.  Your 
mother  says  I  make  difficulties  about  your  marrying 
whom  you  like  or  she  likes  !  No,  I  don't,  none  but  one. 
The  man  that  you  marry  must  have  been  in 
prison,  Suzie.  That's  all  that  I  ask."  He  turned  on 
his  heel. 

"  What  on  earth  does  the  creature  mean  ?  "  exclaimed 
the  mother. 

Blufkin  paused  by  the  door.  "  What  he  says,"  was 
his  stern  reply.  "  You  want  no  better  son-in-law  than 
your  husband,  mistress.  There's  dozens  of  honest 
young  fellows  have  got  into  scrapes  about  poaching  or 
fighting  or  larking,  a  hundred  times  better  than  the 
sneaks  that  have  kept  out.     And  Suzie  shall  have  a 

365 


A   COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

jailbird  for  a  husband,  or  she  shan't  bring  the  man  into 
this  house  !  "  He  waited  in  the  doorway  as  if  half 
irresolute.  "  I  swear  it  by  all  that's  sacred,"  he  said, 
and  disappeared  into  the  smithy. 

All  the  colour  had  gone  from  the  mother's  ruddy 
cheeks.  "  Oh,  if  only  he  hadn't  said  them  last  words  !  " 
she  sobbed,  and  sank  down  on  a  chair. 

"  He  don't  mean  'em,"  exclaimed  Suzie,  scared ; 
"  he  often  says  *em." 

"  Never,  child.  Mean  'em  or  not,  he'll  stick  to  them 
now.  When  father  says  '  by  all  that's  solemn ',  he 
don't  count  that  for  much.  But,  Suzie,  when  I  married 
the  good  man,  he  swore  to  me  '  by  all  that's  sacred  ' 
he'd  never  get  drunk  again  except  at  Kermesse-time. 
He'd  broke  his  oath  before  " — the  poor  woman's  tones 
went  shaky — "  but  'I'll  swear  to  you  by  all  that's 
sacred,'  he  says  with  a  frightened  face,  and,  Suzie,  he's 
kept  to  it ;  he  wouldn't  dare  not." 

Suzie  lifted  up  her  voice  and  wailed. 

"  During  all  these  twenty  years  he's  never  got  drunk, 
except  at  Kermesse,  regular.  And  when  he  came  back 
from — jaO  last  month,  he  walks  into  this  kitchen  here 
with  a  face  as  white  as  yon  tablecloth,  and  '  I'll  stick 
to  my  two  drams  a  day,'  he  says,  '  Kermesse  or  not,' 
he  says ;  '  I  swear  it  by  all  that's  sacred.'  I've  never 
heard  him  say  it  but  just  that  twice  and  now.  Oh, 
Suzie,  you'll  never  be  able  to  marry  Peter  now !  Are 
you  really  sure  you  want  to  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Suzie,  rebelliously. 

"  Well,  there's  no  accounting  for  tastes,"  groaned 
the  mother.  "  And  it's  very  sudden,  Suzie.  You 
never  used  to  think  much  of  him,  the  canting — h'm. 
It  was  always  Henk  I  thought  you  hked." 

366 


I 


A    COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

**  Never  !  "  exclaimed  Suzie,  with  quite  superfluous 
vehemence,  turning  very  red. 

Her  mother  stole  a  glance  at  her, 

"  There'd  be  some  chance  for  Henk,"  said  the  vrouw, 
with  a  httle  ripple  of  humour,  "  though  I  never  heard 
of  his  poaching.  Well,  a  girl  must  have  her  own  way 
about  a  husband.  I  had  mine.  Though  if  you  was 
to  ask  me,  Suzie,  I  think  you're  acting  like  the  squire's 
daughter  I  was  a  lady's-maid  to,  who  married  the  wrong 
man,  and  that's  why  they  called  it  '  pick.'  " 

"  Father's  drove  away  Henk,"  murmured  Suzie. 

"  Well,  child,  you  needn't  have  screamed  so  loud. 
And  at  Kermesse-time,  too,  and  your  father  so  hasty. 
Your  father's  like  a  lord  about  his  womanfolk  ;  I  will 
say  that.  There,  call  him  in  to  supper.  Hear  him 
knocking  bits  of  cold  iron  about !  " 

The  meal  was  a  gloomy  one,  but  a  few  hours  later 
Suzie' s  rather  sulky  slumbers  were  disturbed  by  the  well- 
known  sound  of  her  mother's  laugh.  She  opened  her 
eyes  to  the  glare  of  a  candle  and  the  shaking  of  a  loose 
white  mass.  The  ponderous  vrouw  sank  into  a  chair 
by  the  bedside. 

"  What  is  it,  mother  ?  "  asked  Suzie,  not  over  gra- 
ciously. 

"  Suzie — hi !  hi !  hi ! — now  tell  me,  Suzie,  you're 
quite  sure  you  want  to  marry  Parson  Peter  Boll  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  Let  me  sleep,"  answered  the  poor 
girl,  closing  her  eyes. 

"  Well,  you  shall  have  your  choice.  A  girl  seldom 
changes  her  mind  when  it's  set  on  the  wrong  'un.  If 
you  want  Peter  you  shall  have  him,  child.  I  had  to  come 
and  tell  you  that.     I've  got  an  idea." 

She  rose  heavily,  still   shaking  her  sides,  and  moved 

367 


A   COMEDY   OF   CRIME 

towards  the  door.     "  It  come  to  me  as  I  was  undoing 
my  back  hair,"  she  said. 

"  What  idea  ?  "  cried  Suzie,  suddenly  bolt  upright 
in  the  bed. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  the  morning.  I  must 
work  it  out." 

"  Well,  I  can  afford  to  wait." 

"  That's  a  bad  sign  for  Peter,"  replied  the  vrouw, 
closing  the  door  behind  her. 

Next  morning  being  the  Sabbath,  everybody  went 
to  church,  except  Blufkin.  He  stood,  uncomfortable, 
behind  his  window,  and  watched  the  people  go. 

And  he  stood  defiant  before  his  door  and  saw  them 
aU  come  back.  His  wife  and  daughter  walked  slowly 
beside  Peter.  Before  they  separated,  the  vrouw's  idea 
had  taken  more  definite  shape. 

"  Who  wills  the  end  must  will  the  means."  The 
smith's  wife  quoted  this  bit  of  well-born  wisdom  several 
times  to  Peter  before  she  could  get  him  to  see  how  true 
it  is.  Her  plan,  in  half  a  dozen  words,  was  this  :  The 
smith,  whose  honest  self-respect  had  been  unduly 
humiliated,  must  he  humoured  in  this  crotchet  of  his 
about  having  a  son-in-law  no  better  than  himself.  To 
put  the  matter  plainly,  Peter  must  be  helped  to  commit 
a  crime.  The  vrouw  herself  felt  that  Peter,  unabashed, 
would  be  a  trial  beyond  endurance. 

"  But  I  can't  sin,"  pleaded  Peter. 

"  Nor  you  needn't,"  replied  the  ready  vrouw.  "  You 
can  take  the  money — won't  it  be  yours  when  you  marry 
Suzan  ? — besides,  you'll  return  the  box  to  me  an  hour 
later." 

"  I  can't  do  it,"  said  Peter. 

"  And  I'll  show  you  what's  inside." 
368 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

Peter  pricked  up  his  ears.  "  I  can't,"  he  repeated, 
with  the  decision  of  weakness.  "  If  I  was  to  be  found 
out " 

"  Where'd  your  good-conduct  test  be  ?  "  interjected 
Suzie,  slyly. 

"  Well,  then,  do  the  other  thing — what  I  said  first. 
It's  the  better,"  cried  the  vrouw,  her  face  all  ripples  of 
laughter.     "  Go  for  Henk." 

"  I  cue — cue — can't,"  gasped  the  wretched  youth. 

"  Or  you  might  try  a  bit  of  honest  poaching," 

"  Lord  !  I  might  get  shot !  "  cried  Peter.  "  That's 
worse  than  a  fight." 

"  Well,  that's  what  I  thought,"  said  the  vrouw, 
decidedly.  "  I  thought  you'd  mind  prigging  something 
least.  I  promise  you  I'll  make  things  right  enough.  I'll 
explain  to  the  smith,  and  he'll  be  glad  to  get  quit  of  his 
foolish  oath.  The  box  with  the  money  that  Suzie's  great- 
aunt  left  her  is  in  the  wardrobe  in  my  bedroom.  I'll 
leave  the  door  unlocked.  The  good  man  sleeps  in  the 
parlour  all  Sunday  evening.  You'll  put  the  ladder  to 
the  window  at  the  back — hi !  hi !  You'll  bring  me  the 
box  at  once,  and  before  I  tell  the  smith  a  word  I'll  make 
him  swear  by  all  that's  sacred  that  Suzie  shall  marry 
you,  if  she  wants  to,  as  soon  as  you've  done  something 
which  could  get  you  into  prison  !  "  The  jolly  vrouw 
laughed  on,  as  Peter  thought,  beyond  rational  cause  for 
laughter. 

"  But  he'll  call  me  a  thief,"  expostulated  Peter. 

"  Only  between  ourselves ;  he'd  never  shame  his  daugh- 
ter's husband  in  public.  And  the  pleasure  of  calling 
Elder  Boll's  son  a  thief — he'd  take  you  for  that  alone." 

"  But  not  if  he  thinks  I  aw  a  thief  !  " 

"  Docs  your  father  think  my  man  a  '  jailbird '  ?  " 
24  369 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

She  turned  on  him  triumphantly.  "  Do  you  want  to 
marry  Suzie  or  don't  you  ?  Well,  nothing'll  prove  your 
love  to  him  like  you  doing  all  this  for  her  sake.  And 
he'll  have  his  gibe  ready  to  fling  at  you  when  you  start 
preaching  righteousness — as  you  will." 

"  There's  no  sin,  as  I  can  see,"  said  Peter,  reflectively  ; 
"  but  there's  a  risk." 

"  Yes,  the  box  is  heavy,"  continued  the  smith's  wife. 
"  There's  a  good  deal  in  the  box  ;  you'll  it  know  by  its 
weight.  You're  sure  you  want  to  marry  Suzie  ?  "  She 
stole  an  ugly  look  at  him  from  out  her  cheerful  eyes. 

"  You  needn't  ask  him  again,  please,  mother,"  said 
Suzie,  with  uplifted  nose. 

Peter  gazed  at  the  pretty  tilted  feature,  but,  alas  ! 
his  thoughts  were  of  the  box.  Suzie  was  known  to  have 
inherited  money ;  the  wildest  rumours  circulated  as  to 
the  amount.  Had  ever  mercenary  lover  a  better 
opportunity  before  marriage  of  finding  out  exactly  what 
he  loved  ? 

"  You'll  show  me  what's  inside  ?  "  he  said. 

"  I  keep  my  promises,"  answered  the  vrouw,  shortly. 
"  Yes." 

"  And  you'll  lock  the  parlour  door  ?  " 

"  Don't  I  tell  you  he's  asleep  all  Sunday  evening  ? 
A-sitting  looking  up  the  road  with  his  eyes  shut !  " 

"  And  you'll  stop  with  him  all  the  time  and  keep  him 
from  coming  after  me  ?  " 

"  He  won't  come  after  you,"  replied  the  smith's  wife., 
with  much  meaning. 

"  I'll  do  it,"  said  Peter.     "  It's  a  capital  way." 

"  It  is,"  declared  Suzie's  mother.  But  she  again 
laughed  inordinately,  as  she  watched  Peter  cross  to  his 
home.     "  Suzie,"  she  said,  "  you're  a    fool,   girl,    but 

370 


A   COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

I  pity  you.     It's  your  father's  doing.     And  what  can 
we  do  ?     Henk " 

"  Oh,  mother,  please  don't  talk  of  Henk !  It  is 
father's  doing.     I  never  want  to  hear  his  name  again." 

"  I  was  only  thinking  that  if  Henk  were  to  do  some- 
thing that  got  him  into  prison,  it  wouldn't  be  stealing  a 
money-box."  She  repeated  these  words  with  many  fur- 
tive glances  and  head-shakings  at  her  daughter.  She 
slipped  out  in  the  afternoon,  and  went,  as  she  said,  to  see 
her  sister  ;  but  when  she  came  back  she  laughed  so  much 
that  the  smith  was  annoyed  at  her  untimely  gaiety.  He 
felt  very  cross  himself,  weighed  down  by  his  silly  oath 
of  the  night  before.  He  had  a  great  opinion  of  his  wife's 
judgment  and  a  poor  one  of  his  own,  but  he  knew  that 
even  she  could  not  release  him  from  the  bonds  of  "all 
that's  sacred."     A  terrible  power  indeed. 

"  Don't  be  a  silly  featherhead  !  "  he  said  ;  so  she  knew 
he  was  longing  for  her  guidance. 

When  the  still  Sabbath  even  had  fallen,  Elder  Boll 
came  round  to  the  smith's  door  for  a  little  friendly  chat. 
The  vrouw  met  him  with  her  finger  on  her  lips.  "  Hush, 
he's  asleep,"  she  said. 

-'  He  is,"  replied  the  elder ;  "  in  trespasses  and  sin. 
Stand  aside,  vrouw  ;  'tis  my  mission  to  wake  him  !  " 
And  he  banged  a  loud  bang  with  his  stick  on  the  parlour 
door. 

The  vrouw  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  grinned  an 
expressive  gin.  "  Oh,  of  course,"  she  said,  "  if  it's  your 
mission  to  wake  him  !  "     And  she  flung  wide  the  door. 

"  Giggle  not,  woman  !  "  said  the  elder,  sternly,  as  he 
took  his  seat  beside  the  smith  and  began  to  expound  the 
beauty  of  repentance  in  the  manifestly  fallen,  the  value 
of  public  humiliation  after  patent  shame 

371 


A    COMEDY    OF   CRIME 

Meanwhile  Peter,  having  assured  himself,  by  repeated 
peeping,  of  the  smith's  sleepy  presence  at  the  parlour 
window,  having  even  waited  until  he  could  distinctly 
hear  a  continuous  snore,  crept  round  to  the  unlocked 
gate  at  the  back  of  the  garden,  found  the  ladder,  as 
advised,  in  the  outhouse,  and  softly  stole  up  through  the 
grateful  darkness  to  the  open  window  on  the  second 
floor.  His  heart  went  pit-a-pat,  but  whether  with  fear 
or  expectation  he  could  hardly  have  told  himself.  His 
hands  trembled  as  he  seized  the  box  in  the  cupboard, 
and  felt  its  enormous  weight.  He  knew  that  this 
trembling  of  the  hands  was  a  tribute  of  nature  to  gratitude 
awakened  and  to  hope  that  soared  beyond  hope  ! 

He  hurried  with  his  pleasing  burden  to  the  window 
and  rapidly  felt  along  the  sill.     The  ladder  was  gone. 

"  O  Lord  !  "  he  said,  and  he  was  such  a  hypocrite  that 
really  one  cannot  be  sure  whether  the  words  were  not  a 
prayer. 

He  looked  hastily  to  right  and  left ;  there  was  no  escape. 
But  at  that  very  moment  he  needs  must  fancy  that  he 
heard  a  sound  on  the  stairs. 

He  looked  down  the  wall,  trying  to  measure  its  height 
in  the  darkness.  It  was  not  so  very  high,  and  the  water- 
butt  stood  close  beside  it.  The  ladder  must  have  fallen 
among  the  bushes.  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to 
slip  down  and  get  a  footing  on  the  water-butt. 

He  placed  the  box  on  the  window-sill,  and  let  himself 
down  by  both  hands.  Clinging  tight,  he  took  the  handle 
of  the  box  between  his  heavy  jaws,  and  felt,  dangling 
with  both  legs,  for  the  top  of  the  water-but* 

Alas  !  at  that  moment,  in  the  very  gasp  of  success,  a 
violent  pain  shot  across  his  body  and  changed  the  gasp 
to  a  howl.     He  twisted  under  it,  with  a  wrench,    that 

372 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

caught  his  flapping  coat-tail  in  an  iron  hook  against  the 
wall,  and  the  money-box  dropped  clanging  to  the  ground. 
For  a  terrible  moment  he  hung  there,  shrieking  with 
agony,  as  blow  after  blow  descended,  lustily  dealt,  half- 
way down  his  long  wrigghng  frame.  Several  people  had 
come  running  out  of  the  house  with  a  lamp.  His  screams, 
objurgations,  and  curses  rose  on  the  calm  air,  alternately 
threatful  and  pitiable — in  a  minute  it  was  all  over,  and 
Peter  lay  spluttering  in  the  water-butt.  They  pulled 
him  out  quickly,  and  propped  him  up  against  the  wall. 

Then  he  saw  all  their  faces  at  once,  in  a  circle,  Suzie's 
and  her  mother's,  and  the  smith's  Henk's — and  his 
father's  ! 

"  Peter  !  "  screamed  the  horrified  elder. 

That  was  almost  the  worst  of  all.  The  dishevelled  and 
dripping  lover  saw,  as  his  rapid  glances  travelled  round 
the  company,  amazement  and  amusement  written  on 
every  brow.  Only  the  stolid,  handsome  yeoman,  whose 
hand  held  a  goodly  switch,  fresh  cut  from  the  bushes, 
wore  an  air  of  calm  content. 

■'  Peter  !  "  cried  the  elder,  wringmg  his  hands.  *"  Oh, 
what  a  fall  was  there  !  " 

"  There  was  indeed  !  "  said  the  smith ;  "  into  the 
water-butt." 

But  Peter's  eyes  now  rested  on  the  money-box.  It 
had  struck  against  a  rail  and  burst  open.  A  great  brick 
had  fallen  out,  leaving  it  empty.  "  Why,  there's 
nought  but  a  lump  of  brick  in  it !  "  he  said. 

"  What !  a  thief  !  "  exclaimed  Blufkin,  finding  speech. 

"  A  thief  !  "  repeated  Henk.  "  And  I  thought  he 
came  after  Suzie." 

The  vrouw  began  to  laugh  and  laugh. 

^'  Get  away  !  "  she  cried,  winking  to  Henk.     "  What 

373 


A    COMEDY    OF    CRIME 

do  you  mean,  you  young  rogue,  by  prowling  about  this 
house  when  nobody  knows  you're  near  ?  " 

"  Well,"  rephed  Henk,  and  hung  his  head  before  the 
smith's  uncertain  gaze,  "  you  see,  I — am  after  Suzie." 
He  straightened  himself.  "  Yes,  dang  it  all,"  he  said, 
"  and  in  spite  of  all,  I'm  after  Suzie." 

"  Where's  Suzie's  money  ?  "  suddenly  shouted  the 
smith,  and  ran  toward  the  prostrate  figure  with  menace 
in  face  and  gesture.     Peter  doubled  up  and  shrieked. 

"  Keep  cool,  smith  !  "  called  his  consort.  "  Suzie's 
money  is  safe  enough.     It'll  never  be  Peter  Boll's  !  " 

Peter  Boll  lifted  his  angry  eyes  to  her  face,  and  a  look 
of  intelligence  stole  across  them.     "  I  don't  want  the 
money,"  he  said,  "  but  I'll  have  my  revenge  of  that 
howling  brute." 

"  Who  did  you  say  was  '  howling  '  ?  "  asked  Henk. 

"  Assault  and  battery,"  responded  Peter. 

"  O  Lord,  yes,  assault  and  battery !  "  chimed  in 
Elder  Ball.  "  Peter,  my  boy,  never  you  mind.  I  know 
you  meant  no  harm.  Imprisoned  for  assault  and 
battery !  " 

"  Like  father,"  said  Suzie  amazed  at  her  boldness. 

"  Shall  I  make  it  worth  your  while  ?  "  asked  Henk, 
switching  the  air  as  he  spoke. 

The  smith  interposed  with  ouststretched  hand. 

"  It's  Peter  must  go  to  jail  for  stealing  my  bricks," 
he  said,  cheerfully.  "  Shake  hands,  Henk,  and  let  by- 
gones be  bygones.  I  love  you  for  licking  the  skulking 
cad." 

"  We'll  have  the  law  on  him,  never  you  fear  !  "  cried 
the  elder. 

"  You're  sure  you  will  ?  "  interposed  Vrouw  Blufkin, 
suddenly  pushing  to  the  front. 

374 


A    COMEDY   OF  CRIME 

"  Sure  !  " 

"  Certain  ?  " 

"  What  does  the  woman  mean  ?  I  never  swore  in 
my  Hfe,  but  I'll  swear  to  Henk's  going  to  prison  for 
assault  and  battery." 

"  Then  in  that  case  he'll  be  a  jailbird  like  me " 

began  the  smith,  as  a  grin  broke  slowly  across  his  awk- 
ward features. 

"  The  pair  of  you,  indeed,  in  a  Christian  parish." 

"  And  your  clerical  son,"  concluded  the  smith. 

*'  So  Suzie  can  take  her  choice,"  suggested  Suzie's 
mother,  as  the  elder  fell  back,  disconcerted. 

"  Tush,  tush !  "  said  the  smith,  "  we'll  all  go  to  church 
together  before  anybody  goes  to  prison  !  " 


(1) 


375 


**  A  beautiful  romance  of  the  days  of  Robert  Bums/^ 

Nancy  Stair. 

A  Novel.  By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane,  author 
of "  Mills  of  God."    Illustrated.     i2mo.    Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  With  very  much  the  grace  and  charm  of  Robert  Louis 
Stevenson,  the  author  of  *  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair  *  com- 
bines unusual  gifts  of  narrative,  characterization,  color,  and 
humor.  She  has  also  delicacy,  dramatic  quality,  and  that 
rare  gift — historic  imagination. 

"  '  The  Life  of  Nancy  Stair '  is  interesting  from  the  first 
sentence  to  the  last ;  the  characters  are  vital  and  are,  also, 
most  entertaining  company;  the  denouement  unexpected 
and  picturesque  and  cleverly  led  up  to  from  one  of  the 
earliest  chapters;  the  story  moves  swiftly  and  without  a 
hitch.  Robert  Burns  is  neither  idealized  nor  caricatured  ; 
Sandy,  Jock,  Pitcairn,  Danvers  Carmichael,  and  the  Duke 
of  Borthewicke  are  admirably  relieved  against  each  other, 
and  Nancy  herself  as  irresistible  as  she  is  natural.  To  be 
sure,  she  is  a  wonderful  child,  but  then  she  manages  to 
make  you  believe  she  was  a  real  one.  Indeed,  reality  and 
naturalness  are  two  of  the  charms  of  a  story  that  both 
reaches  the  heart  and  engages  the  mind,  and  which  can 
scarcely  fail  to  make  for  itself  a  large  audience.  A  great 
deal  of  delightful  talk  and  interesting  incidents  are  used  for 
the  development  of  the  story.  Whoever  reads  it  will  advise 
everybody  he  knows  to  read  it ;  and  those  who  do  not  care 
for  its  literary  quality  cannot  escape  the  interest  of  a  love- 
story  full  of  incident  and  atmosphere." 

"  Powerfully  and  attractively  written." — Pittsburg  Post. 

"  A  story  best  described  with  the  word  '  charming.'  " 

—  Washington  Post, 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW    YORK. 


**  Daring  in  conception  and  fulfilment.'' 

— Boston  Herald* 

Mills  of  God. 

By  Elinor  Macartney  Lane.  Illustrated.  i2mo. 

Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  It  is  a  good  novel  in  comparison  to  even  the  best  in  current  Amer- 
ican fiction." —  TAe  New  York  Herald. 

"  The  reader  will  not  willingly  lay  aside  the  book  till  the  end  is 
reached.  The  story  is  exceedingly  well  written  and  thoroughly  well 
told." — The  Washington  Post. 

"  The  story  shows  maturity,  resource,  and  distinction.  It  combines 
the  dash  and  valor  of  the  favorite  school  of  fiction  with  the  poise,  acute- 
ness,  and  refinement  of  the  reflective  type.  It  is  compact  of  fresh, 
generous  character  creation,  appealing  and  exquisite." — Boston  Times. 

"  Her  theme  is  daring  and  delicate.  Notwithstanding,  the  final 
product  more  than  justifies  the  choice,  the  story  is  strong  and  fearlessly 
told,  the  novel  exceptional  in  finish  and  the  careful  balance  of  its  parts." 

—  The  Washington  Star. 

"  '  Mills  of  God '  is  said  to  be  a  woman's  first  novel,  and  if  this  be 
true  the  writer,  Elinor  Macartney  Lane,  has  much  to  be  proud  of.  She 
has  studied  her  art  and  has  a  serious  view  of  it.  It  is  a  well-written, 
interesting,  and  readable  novel."  — New  York  Times  Saturday  Review. 

"  She  certainly  will  be  heard  from  again  and  more  insistently.  Not 
only  for  the  pleasure  it  gives,  but  still  more  for  the  intellectual  delight 
of  watching  from  the  first  the  development  of  a  new  writer,  '  Mills  of 
God '  deserves  wide  attention.     Its  writer  is  a  coming  author." 

— New  York  Alail  and  Express. 

"  A  romance  of  extraordinary  charm  and  carries  its  absorbing  story 
along  with  triumphant  decision.  The  ideals  of  the  book  are  high,  and 
the  romance  is  too  gallant  to  leave  the  mind  of  the  reader  in  a  depressed 
condition." — Chicago  Tribune. 

"  A  brilliant  romance  of  Virginia  ;  a  deftly  woven  tale,  with  passion's 
power  for  good  and  evil  as  its  theme.  Mrs.  Lane  has  a  vivacious,  spir-  , 
ited,  graphic  way  of  telling  a  story  and  portraying  character.  Her 
dialogue  has  an  air  of  life,  and  is  even-pointed  and  piquant.  She  has 
pictured  with  power,  yet  with  delicacy  and  reserve,  the  dawn  of  a  great 
passion,  the  futile  struggle  against  it,  and  the  surrender." 

— Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"A  mighty  good  romance.  The  characters  are  complex  human 
beings,  instead  of  lay-figures  for  the  display  of  ready-made  chivalry, 
and  one  remembers  both  them  and  their  history  after  laying  down  the 
book." — Life. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


THE  MASTERPIECE  OF  A  MASTER  MIND. 

The  Prodigal  Son. 

By  Hall  Caine.    i2mo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  Prodigal  Son  "  follows  the  lines  of  the  Bible  para- 
ble in  the  principal  incidents,  but  in  certain  important 
particulars  it  departs  from  them.  In  a  most  convincing 
way,  and  with  rare  beauty,  the  story  shows  that  Christ's 
parable  is  a  picture  of  heavenly  mercy,  and  not  of  human 
justice,  and  if  it  were  used  as  an  example  of  conduct  among 
men  it  would  destroy  all  social  conditions  and  disturb  ac- 
cepted laws  of  justice.  The  book  is  full  of  movement  and 
incident,  and  must  appeal  to  the  public  by  its  dramatic 
story  alone.  The  Prodigal  Son  at  the  close  of  the  book 
has  learned  this  great  lesson,  and  the  meaning  of  the  parable 
is  revealed  to  him.  Neither  success  nor  fame  can  ever  wipe 
out  the  evil  of  the  past.  It  is  not  from  the  unalterable  laws 
of  nature  and  life  that  forgiveness  can  be  hoped  for. 

"  Since  '  The  Manxman  '  Hall  Caine  has  written  nothing  so  moving 
in  its  elements  of  pathos  and  tragedy,  so  plainly  marked  with  the  power 
to  search  the  human  heart  and  reveal  its  secret  springs  of  strength  and 
weakness,  its  passion  and  strife,  so  sincere  and  satisfying  as  '  The  Prodi- 
gal Son.'  " — Nezv  York  Times. 

"  It  is  done  with  supreme  self-confidence,  and  the  result  is  a  work 
of  genius." — New  York  Evening  Post. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  will  hold  the  reader's  attention  from  cover  to 
cover." — Philadelphia  Record. 

"  This  is  one  of  Hall  Caine's  best  novels — one  that  a  large  portion 
of  the  fiction-reading  public  will  thoroughly  enjoy." 

—  Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  It  is  a  notable  piece  of  fiction." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 
"  In  'The  Prodigal  Son'  Hall  Caine  has  produced  his  greatest  work." 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  Mr.  Caine  has  achieved  a  work  of  extraordinary  merit,  a  fiction  as 
finely  conceived,  as  deftly  constructed,  as  some  of  the  best  work  of  our 
living  novelists." — London  Daily  Mail. 

"  '  The  Prodigal  Son '  is  indeed  a  notable  novel ;  and  a  work  that 
may  certainly  rank  with  the  best  of  recent  fiction.  ..." 

—  Westminster  Gazette. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


NOVELS   BY   HALL   CAINE. 

Uniform  Edition.    Each,  12mo,  cloth. 

The  Prodigal  Son.    $1.50. 

"  It  is  done  with  supreme  self-confidence,  and  the  result  is  a  work  of  genius." 

— Ne-w  York  Evening  Post. 
"  In  '  The  Prodigal  Son  '  Hall  Caine  has  produced  his  greatest  work." 

— Boston  Herald. 

"  Since  '  The  Manxman  '  Hall  Caine  has  written  nothing  so  moving  in  its  elements 

of  pathos  and  tragedy,  so  plainly  marked  with  the  power  to  search  the  human  heart 

and  reveal  its  secret  springs  of  strength  and  weakness,  its  passion  and  strife,  so  sincere 

and  satisfying  as  'The  Prodigal  Son.'  " — Neiu  York  Times. 

The  Eternal  City.    $1.50. 

"One  of  the  verj'  strongest  productions  in  fiction  that  the  present  age  has  been 
privileged  to  cii]oy ."—Philadelphia  Item. 

"  The  novel  is  wonderful  in  its  power,  its  wealth  of  dramatic  incident,  and  its  rich- 
ness of  diction." — Rochester  Detnocrat  and  Chronicle. 

The  Christian.    $1.50. 

"A  book  of  wonderful  power  and  force." — Brooklyn  Eagle. 

"Its  strength  grasps  you  at  the  beginning  and  holds  you  to  the  end.  There  is  in 
t  something  of  the  fervor  of  true  prophecy." — Chicago  Journal. 

The  Manxman.    $1.50. 

"  Hall  Caine  has  the  art  of  being  human  and  humane,  and  his  characters  have  the 
strength  of  elemental  things.  In  '  The  Manxman  '  he  handles  large  human  questions 
— the  questions  of  lawful  and  lawless  love." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser. 

The  Deemster.    $1.50. 

Ne'du  copyright  edition,  revised  by  the  author. 

"Hall  Caine  has  already  given  us  some  very  strong  and  fine  work,  and  'The 
Deemster '  is  a  story  of  unusual  power.  .  .  .  Certain  passages  and  chapters  have  an 
intensely  dramatic  grasp  and  hold  the  fascinated  reader  with  a  force  rarely  excited 
nowadays  in  literature." — The  Critic. 

The  Bondman.    $1.50. 

Nevj  copyright  edition.,  revised  by  the  author. 

The  Scapegoat.    $1.50. 

New  copyright  edition,  revised  by  the  author. 

Capt'n  Davy's  Honeymoon.    Si. 00. 
The  Little  Manx  Nation.    $1.00. 

D.     APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


Wrr,  SPARKUNG,  SCINTILLATING  WIT, 
IS  THE  ESSENCE  OF 

Kate  of  Kate  Hall, 

By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler, 

whose  reputation  was  made  by  her  first  book, 
"  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby,"  and  enhanced  by  her 
last  success,  "  Place  and  Power." 

"In  'Kate  of  Kate  Hall,*  by  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler,  the  ques- 
tion of  imminent  concern  is  the  marriage  of  super-dainty,  peppery. 
tempered  Lady  Katherine  Clare,  whose  wealthy  godmother,  erstwhile 
deceased,  has  left  her  a  vast  fortune,  on  condition  that  she  shall  be 
wedded  within  six  calendar  months  from  date  of  the  testator's  death. 

"An  easy  matter,  it  would  seem,  for  bonny  Kate,  notwithstanding 
her  aptness  at  sharp  repartee,  is  a  morsel  fit  for  the  gods. 

"  The  accepted  suitor  appears  in  due  time  ;  but  comes  to  grief  at  the 
last  moment  in  a  quarrel  with  Lady  Kate  over  a  kiss  bestowed  by  her 
upon  her  godmother's  former  man  of  affairs  and  secretary.  This  inci- 
dent she  haughtily  refuses  to  explain.  Moreover,  she  shatters  the  bond 
of  engagement,  although  but  three  weeks  remain  of  the  fatal  six  months. 
She  would  rather  break  stones  on  the  road  all  day  and  sleep  in  a 
pauper's  grave  all  night,  than  marry  a  man  who,  while  professing  to  love 
her,  would  listen  to  mean  and  malicious  gossips  picked  up  by  tell-tales 
in  the  servants'  hall. 

"  So  the  great  estate  is  likely  to  be  lost  to  Kate  and  her  debt-ridden 
father,  Lord  Claverley.  How  it  is  conserved  at  last,  and  gloomy  appre- 
hension chased  away  by  dazzling  visions  of  material  splendor — that  is 
the  author's  well-kept  secret,  not  to  be  shared  here  with  a  careless  and 
indolent  public." — Philadelphia  North  American. 

"  The  long-standing  reproach  that  women  are  seldom  [humorists 
seems  in  a  fair  way  of  passing  out  of  existence.  Several  contemporary 
feminine  writers  have  at  least  sufficient  sense  of  humor  to  produce  char- 
acters as  deliciously  humorous  as  delightful.  Of  such  order  is  the 
Countess  Claverley,  made  whimsically  real  and  lovable  in  the  recent 
book  by  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler  and  A.  L.  Felkin,  '  Kate  of  Kate 
Hall.'  " — Chicago  Record-Herald. 

"  '  Kate  of  Kate  Hall '  is  a  novel  in  which  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler 
displays  her  brilliant  abilities  at  their  best.  The  story  is  well  constructed, 
the  plot  develops  beautifully,  the  incidents  are  varied  and  brisk,  and  the 
dialogue  is  deliciously  clever." — Rochester  Democrat  and  Chronicle. 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


A  NEW  BOOK  BY  MISS  FOWLER. 

"  For  months  to  come  the  story  will  be  talked  about  by 
some  millions  of  the  population  of  the  British  Islands." 

— Literary  World,  Londork 

Place  and  Power. 

By  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler,  Author 
of  "  Concerning  Isabel  Carnaby,"  "  The  Farring- 
dons,"  etc.     Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  story  of  an  ambitious  young  man  whose  most 
cherished  aims  are  frustrated  through  retributive  justice. 
The  story  is  full  of  interest  and  attractive  characterization, 
the  main  action  of  the  plot  is  skilfully  hidden  until  the 
right  moment,  and  the  dialogue  is  entertaining  and  clever. 

"A  story  as  brilliant  as  it  is  wholesome.  Wit  and  satire  flash  in  the 
dialogue,  and  the  love  scenes  are  delightful." — Evening  Sun,  New  York. 

"  A  better  book  in  some  respects  than  the  much  read  '  Isabel 
Carnaby.'  " — Evening  Post,  Louisville,  Ky. 

"  Keeps  up  her  reputation  for  epigram,  brilliant  delineation  of  char- 
acter, and  social  climaxes." — Courier-Journal^  Louisville,  Ky. 

"Full  of  intellect  and  brightness." — Globe-Democrat,  St.  Louis. 

"  Miss  Fowler's  old  lightness  and  cleverness  of  touch  show  through- 
out the  book." — The  World,  New  York. 

"  The  same  ring  of  keen  insight,  understanding  of  types  of  human 
nature,  and  ability  to  create  brilliant  conversations — the  faint,  whimsical 
describing  of  the  hearts  of  her  characters,  which  gives  so  vivid  and  last- 
ing a  conception  of  their  personalities." — Pioneer  Press,  St.  Paul. 

D.    APPLETON    and     company,    new    YORK 


By  ELLEN  THORNEYCROFT  FOWLER. 


Each,  ilmof  cloth,  $1.50. 
Place  and  Power.     With  8  full-page  Illustrations. 

The  story  of  an  ambitious  young  man  whose  most  cherished  aims  are 
frustrated  through  retributive  justice.  The  story  is  full  of  interest  and 
attractive  characterization,  the  main  action  of  the  plot  is  skilfully  hidden 
until  the  right  moment,  and  the  dialogue  is  entertaining  and  clever. 

Sirius.     A  Volume  of  Fiction. 

"  Ellen  Thorneycroft  Fowler's  latest  production  has  richer  sources  of 
entertainment  than  any  one  book  she  has  yet  written,  inasmuch  as  it  has 
more  characters,  more  conversation,  and  more  epigrams." — Chicago  Tribune. 

Cupid's   Garden.     With  new  Portrait  of  the  Author. 

"  Whatever  this  author  sends  out  has  freshness  and  originality,  and  her 
sketches  of  people  are  so  deftly  drawn  that  one  wonders  at  the  versatility. 
'  Cupid's  Garden  '  is  a  collection  of  stories  of  love,  not  all  of  which  run 
smooth,  but  which  all  exhibit  some  noble  trait  of  the  tender  passion." — 
Indianapolis  News. 

The  Farringdons. 

"  'The  Farringdons'  is  a  serious  and  a  sound  piece  of  work,  and  there 
is  about  it  a  note  of  thoroughly  genuine  piety  which  is  very  far  from  bemg 
religiosity.  ...  It  is  bright,  it  is  interesting,  and  the  denouement  is  just 
what  we  all  would  wish  it  to  be." — London  Chronicle. 

Concerning   Isabel    Carnaby.     New  edition,   with    Por- 
trait and  Biographical    Sketch  of  the  Author. 

"  Rarely  does  one  find  such  a  charming  combination  of  wit  and  tender- 
ness, of  brilliancy,  and  reverence  for  the  things  that  matter.  ...  It  is 
bright  without  being  flippant,  tender  without  bemg  mawkish,  and  as  joyous 
and  as  wholesome  as  sunshine  The  characters  are  closely  studied  and 
clearly  limned,  and  they  are  created  by  one  who  knows  human  nature.  .  .  . 
It  would  be  hard  to  find  its  superior  for  all-around  excellence.  .  .  .  No  one 
who  reads  it  will  regret  it  or  forget  it." — Chicago  Tribune. 

A  Double  Thread. 

"  Brilliant  and  witty.  Shows  fine  insight  into  character." — Minneapolis 
Journal. 

"Crowded  with  interesting  people.  One  of  the  most  enjoyable  stories 
of  the  season." — Philadelphia  Inquirer. 


D.     APPLETON     AND      COMPANY.      NEW     YORK 


MAARTEN  MAARTENS'S  LATEST  BOOK. 


JUST  PUBLISHED, 
Dorothea.    A  Story  of  the  Pure  in  Heart. 

i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

"  The  book  is  not  one  to  be  read  hastily  or  superficially.  There  are 
a  great  number  of  characters,  and  they  are  all  living,  breathing,  thinking 
men  and  women,  stimulating  in  their  contrast  to  the  sawdust  puppets 
of  so  much  of  our  contemporary  fiction.  Mr.  Maartens  writes  from  the 
viewpoint  at  once  of  humorist,  philosopher,  and  man  of  the  world.  He 
does  not  pelt  us  with  laboriously  prepared  epigrams,  but  a  quietly  whole- 
some humor  sparkles  in  all  his  dialogue.  His,  in  short,  is  a  story  to 
enjoy  in  leisurely  fashion  and  be  grateful  for." — New  York  Sun. 

"  The  movement  is  swift  and  sure,  the  wit  keen,  the  worldly  wisdom 
ripe  and  rich.  In  a  word,  it  is  the  work  of  a  master,  done  to  its  smallest 
detail  in  masterly  fashion." — JVew   York  Times. 

"  Put  before  us  with  such  truth  and  such  fine  feeling  that  it  awakens 
ideas,  touches  the  imagination,  and  altogether  gives  us  something  to  add 
to  our  conception  of  life." — jVeza  York  Tribune. 

"  It  is  full  of  humor  and  charm,  touched  with  a  strong  dramatic  in- 
stinct and  replete  with  life.  '  Dorothea '  is  a  book  to  be  read  ;  those 
who  neglect  to  do  so  will  miss  much  enjoyment.  Life  seen  through  the 
glasses  of  Mr.  Maartens  is  an  absorbingly  interesting  and  delightful 
thing." —  TAe  Academy  and  Literature,  London. 


OTHER   BOOKS   BY   MAARTEN   MAARTENS. 
Each,  i2mo,  cloth,  $1.50.     In  Uniform  Binding. 

Some  Women  I  Have  Known.     With  Frontispiece. 

"  These  stories  indicate  character,  relations,  environments,  the  deveU 
opment  of  incidents  with  the  lightness  and  grace  of  a  true  artist." 

Her  Memory.     With  Photogravure  Portrait. 

The  Greater  Glory.    A  story  of  High  Life. 

God's  Fool. 

Joost  Avelingh. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Santa  Barbara 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW. 


Series  9482 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A         001  423  332  4 


3  1205  02089  6351 


